ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 


presented  to  the 
UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIFGO 

by 

Tom  Ham 


Novels  By  Robert  W.  Chambers 


Barbarians 
The  Dark  Star 
The  Girl  Philippa 
Who  Goes  Therei 
Athalie 

The  Business  of  Life 
The  Gay  Rebellion 
The  Streets  of  Ascalon 
The  Common  Law 
The  Fighting  Chance 
The  Younger  Set 
The  Danger  Mark 
The  Firing  Line 
Japonette 
Quick  Action 
The  Adventures  of 

a  Modest  Man 
Anne's  Bridge 
Between  Friends 
The  Better  Man 
Police  !  !  ! 
Some  Ladies  in  Haste 
The  Tree  of  Heaven 
The  Tracer  of  Lost 

Persons 
The  Hidden  Children 


Cardigan 
The  Reckoning 
The  Maid-at-Arms 
Ailsa  Paige 
Special  Messenger 
The  Haunts  of  Men 
Lorraine 

Maids  of  Paradise 
Ashes  of  Empire 
The  Red  Republic 
Blue-Bird  Weather 
A  Young  Man  in  a 

Hurry 

The  Green  Mouse 
lole 

The  Mystery  of  Choice 
The  Cambric  Mask 
The  Maker  of  Moons 
The  King  in  Yellow 
In  Search  of  the 

Unknown 
The  Conspirators 
A  King  and  a  Few 

Dukes 

In  the  Quarter 
Outsiders 


Stent   lost   the  tifjlit,  fell  outward,   wider,   dropping   hack   into 

inid-air.  [PAGE  t>2] 


BARBARIANS 


BY 

ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  DARK  STAB,"  "THE  GIBL  PHILIPPA," 
"WHO  GOES  THEBE,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

A.  I.  KELLER 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1917 


COPYBIGHT,   1917,  BT 

ROBERT  W.  CHAMBERS 


1915,  1916.  1917,  BY  THE  INTEB.NATIONAL  MAGAZINE  COMPAUT 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


I 

"Daughter  of  Light,  the  bestial  wrath 
Of  Barbary  besets  thy  path ! 
The  Hun  is  beating  his  painted  drum; 
His  war  horns  blare !    The  Hun  is  come ! ' ' 

"Father,  I  feel  his  fretid  breath: 
The  thick  air  reeks  with  the  stench  of  death; 
My  will  is  Thine.    Thy  will  be  done 
On  Turk  and  Bulgar,  Czech  and  Hun!" 

II 

She  understands. 

Where  the  dead  headland  flare 

Mocks  sea  and  sand; 

Where  death-lights  shed  their  glare 

On  No-Man' s-Land. 

France  takes  her  stand. 

Magnificently  fair, 

The  Flaming  Brand 

Within  her  slender  hand; 

Christ's  lilies  in  her  hair. 

Ill 

"Daughter  of  Grief,  thy  House  is  sand! 
Thy  towers  are  falling  athwart  the  land. 
They've  flayed  the  earth  to  its  ribs  of  chalk 
And  over  its  bones  the  spectres  stalk!" 

"Father,  I  see  my  high  spires  reel; 
My  breast  is  scarred  by  the  Hun's  hoofed  heel. 
What  was,  shall  be!    I  read  Thy  sign: 
Thy  ocean  yawns  for  the  smitten  swine!" 


IV 

Then,  from  Verdun 

Pealed  westward  to  the  Somme 

From  every  gun 

God's  summons:  "Daughter!  Come!" 

Then  the  red  sun 

Stood  still.    Grew  dumb 

The  universal  hum 

Of  life,  and  numb 

The  lips  of  Life,  undone 

By  Death.  .  .  .  And  so — France  won! 


"Daughter  of  God,  the  End  is  here! 
The  swine  rush  on :  the  sea  is  near ! 
My  wild  flowers  bloom  on  the  trenches'  edge; 
My  little  birds  sing  by  shore  and  sedge. ' ' 

"Father,  raise  up  my  martyred  land! 
Clothe  her  bones  with  Thy  magic  hand; 
Receive  the  Brand  Thy  angel  lent, 
And  stanch  my  blood  with  Thy  sacrament." 


CONTENTS 


I.  FED  UP    . 

II.  MAROONED 

III.  CUCKOO!  . 

IV.  RECONNAISSANCE 
V.  PARNASSUS 

VI.  IN  FlNISTERE     . 

VII.  THE  AIRMAN    . 

VIII.  EN  OBSERVATION 

IX.  L'OMBRE 

X.  THE  GHOULS    . 

XI.  THE  SEED  OP  DEATH 

XII.  FlFTY-FlFTY 

XIII.  MULETEERS 

XIV.  LA  PLOO  BELLE 
XV.  CARILLONNETTE 

XVI.  DJACK      . 

XVII.  FRIENDSHIP 

XVIII.  THE  AVIATOR    . 

XIX.  HONOUR  . 

XX.  "LA  BRABANCONNE"  . 

XXI.  THE  GARDENER 

XXII.  THE  SUSPECT   . 

XXIII.  MADAM  DEATH 

XXIV.  BUBBLES  . 

XXV.  KAMERAD 


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211 

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LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

Stent  lost  the  fight,  fell  outward,  wider,  dropping  back 

into  mid-air Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

"Drop  your  rifles.    Drop  'em,  quick !"  he  repeated  more 

sharply 44 

The  airman  fired  twice  .  .  .  steadied  the  automatic  to 

shoot  again,  but  held  his  fire 90 

He  heard  the  orders;  was  aware  of  the  levelled  rifles; 

but  his  reckless  greyish  eyes  were  fixed  on  her.      .  200 


BARBARIANS 


CHAPTER   I 

FED  UP 

So  this  is  what  happened  to  the  dozen-odd 
malcontents  who  could  no  longer  stand  the 
dirty  business  in  Europe  and  the  dirtier  politi 
cians  at  home. 

There  was  treachery  in  the  Senate,  treason 
in  the  House.  A  plague  of  liars  infested  the 
Republic ;  the  land  was  rotting  with  plots. 

But  if  the  authorities  at  Washington  re 
mained  incredulous,  stunned  into  impotency, 
while  the  din  of  murder  filled  the  world,  a  few 
mere  men,  fed  up  on  the  mess,  sickened  while 
awaiting  executive  galvanization,  and  started 
east  to  purge  their  souls. 

They  came  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  con 
tinent,  drawn  to  the  decks  of  the  mule  trans 
port  by  a  common  sickness  and  a  common  ne 
cessity.  Only  two  among  them  had  ever  before 

i 


BARBARIANS 


met.  They  represented  all  sorts,  classes,  de 
grees  of  education  and  of  ignorance,  drawn  to 
a  common  rendezvous  by  coincidental  nausea 
incident  to  the  temporary  stupidity  and  pol 
troonery  of  those  supposed  to  represent  them 
in  the  Congress  of  the  Great  Republic. 

The  rendezvous  was  a  mule  transport  reek 
ing  with  its  cargo,  still  tied  up  to  the  sun- 
scorched  wharf  where  scores  of  loungers  loafed 
and  gazed  up  at  the  rail  and  exchanged  badi 
nage  with  the  supercargo. 

The  supercargo  consisted  of  this  dozen-odd 
fed-up  ones — eight  Americans,  three  French 
men  and  one  Belgian. 

There  was  a  young  soldier  of  fortune  named 
Carfax,  recently  discharged  from  the  Pennsyl 
vania  State  Constabulary,  who  seemed  to  feel 
rather  sure  of  a  commission  in  the  British 
service. 

Beside  him,  leaning  on  the  blistering  rail, 
stood  a  self-possessed  young  man  named  Harry 
Stent.  He  had  been  educated  abroad;  his 
means  were  ample;  his  time  his  own.  He  had 
shot  all  kinds  of  big  game  except  a  Hun,  he  told 
another  young  fellow — a  civil  engineer — who 

2 


FED    UP 

stood  at  his  left  and  whose  name  was   Jim 
Brown. 

A  youth  on  crutches,  passing  along  the  deck 
behind  them,  lingered,  listening  to  the  conver 
sation,  slightly  amused  at  Stent's  game  list  and 
his  further  ambition  to  bag  a  Boche. 

The  young  man's  lameness  resulted  from  a 
trench  acquaintance  with  the  game  which  Stent 
desired  to  hunt.  His  regiment  had  been,  and 
still  was,  the  2nd  Foreign  Legion.  He  was  on 
his  way  back,  now,  to  finish  his  convalescence 
in  his  old  home  in  Finistere.  He  had  been  a 
writer  of  stories  for  children.  His  name  was 
Jacques  Wayland. 

As  he  turned  away  from  the  group  at  the 
rail,  still  amused,  a  man  advancing  aft  spoke  to 
him  by  name,  and  he  recognized  an  American 
painter  whom  he  had  met  in  Brittany. 

"You,  Neeland?" 

"Oh,  yes.  I'm  fed  up  with  watchful  wait 
ing." 

"Where   are  you  bound,   ultimately?" 

"I've  a  hint  that  an  Overseas  unit  can  use 
me.  And  you,  Wayland  f 

3 


BARBARIANS 


"Going  to  my  old  home  in  Finistere  where 
I'll  get  well,  I  hope." 

"And  then?" 

"Second  Foreign." 

"Oh.  Get  that  leg  in  the  trenches!"  in 
quired  Neeland. 

"Yes.  Came  over  to  recuperate.  But  Fin 
istere  calls  me.  I've  got  to  smell  the  sea  off 
Eryx  before  I  can  get  well." 

'A!  pleasant-faced,  middle-aged  man,  who 
stood  near,  turned  his  head  and  cast  a  pro 
fessionally  appraising  glance  at  the  young 
fellow  on  crutches. 

His  name  was  Vail;  he  was  a  physician. 
It  did  not  seem  to  him  that  there  was  much 
chance  for  the  lame  man's  very  rapid  re 
covery. 

Three  muleteers  came  on  deck  from  below 
— all  young  men,  all  talking  in  loud,  careless 
voices.  They  wore  uniforms  of  khaki  re 
sembling  the  regular  service  uniform.  They 
had  no  right  to  these  uniforms. 

One  of  these  young  men  had  invented  the 
costume.  His  name  was  Jack  Burley.  His 
two  comrades  were,  respectively,  "Sticky" 

4 


FED    UP 

Smith  and  "Kid"  Glenn.  Both  had  figured 
in  the  squared  circle.  All  three  were  fed 
up.  They  desired  to  wallop  something,  even- 
if  it  were  only  a  leather-rumped  mule. 

Four  other  men  completed  the  supercargo 
— three  French  youths  who  were  returning 
for  military  duty  and  one  Belgian.  They 
had  been  waiters  in  New  York.  They  also 
were  fed  up  with  the  administration.  They 
kept  by  themselves  during  the  voyage.  No 
body  ever  learned  their  names.  They  left 
the  transport  at  Calais,  reported,  and  were 
lost  to  sight  in  the  flood  of  young  men  flow 
ing  toward  the  trenches. 

They  completed  the  odd  dozen  of  fed-up 
ones  who  sailed  that  day  on  the  suffocating 
mule  transport  in  quest  of  something  they 
needed  but  could  not  find  in  America — some 
thing  that  lay  somewhere  amid  flaming  ob 
scurity  in  that  hell  of  murder  beyond  the 
Somme — their  souls'  salvation  perhaps. 

Twelve  fed-up  men  went.  And  what  hap 
pened  to  all  except  the  four  French  youths 
is  known.  Fate  laid  a  guiding  hand  on  the 
shoulder  of  Carfax  and  gave  him  a  gentle 
2  5 


BARBARIANS 


shove  toward  the  Vosges.  Destiny  linked 
arms  with  Stent  and  Brown  and  led  them 
toward  Italy.  Wayland's  rendezvous  with  Old 
Man  Death  was  in  Finistere.  Neeland  sailed 
with  an  army  corps,  but  Chance  met  him  at  Lo- 
rient  and  led  him  into  the  strangest  paths  a 
young  man  ever  travelled. 

As  for  Sticky  Smith,  Kid  Glenn  and  Jack 
Burley,  they  were  muleteers.  Or  thought 
they  were.  A  muleteer  has  to  do  with  mules. 
.Nothing  else  is  supposed  to  concern  him. 

JBut  into  the  lives  of  these  three  muleteers 
came  things  never  dreamed  of  in  their 
philosophy — never  imagined  by  them  even  in 
their  cups. 

As  for  the  others,  Carfax,  Brown,  Stent, 
Wayland,  Neeland,  this  is  what  happened  to 
each  one  of  them.  But  the  episode  of  Car 
fax  comes  first.  It  happened  somewhere 
north  of  the  neutral  Alpine  region  where  the 
Vosges  shoulder  their  way  between  France 
,and  Germany. 

After  he  had  exchanged  a  dozen  words 
^ith  a  staff  officer,  he  began  to  realize, 
vaguely,  that  he  was  done  in. 

6 


CHAPTER   II 

MAROONED 

"Will  they  do  anything  for  us?"  repeated 
Carfax. 

The  staff  officer  thought  it  very  doubtful. 
He  stood  in  the  snow  switching  his  wet  put 
tees  and  looking  out  across  a  world  of  tum 
bled  mountains.  Over  on  his  right  lay  Ger 
many;  on  his  left,  France;  Switzerland  tow 
ered  in  ice  behind  him  against  an  arctic 
blue  sky. 

It  grew  warm  on  the  Falcon  Peak,  almost 
hot  in  the  sun.  Snow  was  melting  on  black 
heaps  of  rocks;  a  black  salamander,  swollen, 
horrible,  stirred  from  its  stiff  lethargy  and 
crawled  away  blindly  across  the  snow. 

"Our  case  is  this,"  continued  Carfax;  "some 
body's  made  a  mistake.  We've  been  forgot 
ten.  And  if  they  don't  relieve  us  rather  soon 

7 


BARBARIANS 


some  of  us  will  go  off  our  bally  nuts.  Do 
you  get  me,  Major?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon " 

"Do  you  understand  what  I've  been  say 
ing?" 

"Oh,  yes;  quite  so." 

"Then  ask  yourself;  Major,  how  long  can 
four  men  stand  it,  cooped  up  here  on  this 
peak?  A  month,  two  months,  three,  five? 
But  it's  going  on  ten  months — ten  months  of 
solitude — silence — not  a  sound,  except  when 
the  snowslides  go  bellowing  off  into  'Alsace 
down  there  below  our  feet."  His  bronzed 
lip  quivered.  "I'll  get  aboard  one  if  this  keeps 
on." 

He  kicked  a  lump  of  ice  off  into  space; 
the  staff  officer  glanced  at  him  and  looked 
away  hurriedly. 

"Listen,"  said  Carfax  with  an  effort;  "we're 
not  regulars — not  like  the  others.  The  Ca 
nadian  division  is  different.  Its  discipline 
is  different — in  spite  of  Salisbury  Plain  and 
K.  of  K.  In  my  regiment  there  are  half- 
breeds,  pelt-hunters,  Nome  miners,  Yankees 
of  all  degrees,  British,  Canadians,  gentlemen 

8 


MAROONED 


adventurers  from  Cosmopolis.  They're  good 
soldiers,  but  do  you  think  they'd  stay  here? 
It  is  so  in  the  Athabasca  Battalion;  it  is  the 
same  in  every  battalion.  They  wouldn't  stay 
here  ten  months.  They  couldn't.  We  are 
free  people;  we  can't  stand  indefinite  caging; 
we've  got  to  have  walking  room  once  every 
few  months." 

The  staff  officer  murmured   something. 

"I  know;  but  good  God,  man!  Four  of 
us  have  been  on  this  peak  for  nearly  ten 
months.  We've  never  seen  a  Boche,  never 
heard  a  shot.  Seasons  come  and  go,  rain 
falls,  snow  falls,  the  winds  blow  from  the 
Alps,  but  nothing  else  comes  to  us  except  a 
half -frozen  bird  or  two." 

The  staff  officer  looked  about  him  with  an 
involuntary  shiver.  There  was  nothing  to 
see  except  the  sun  on  the  wet,  black  rocks 
and  the  whitewashed  observation  station  of 
solid  stone  from  which  wires  sagged  into  the 
valley  on  the  French  side. 

"Well — good  luck,"  he  said  hastily,  looking 
as  embarrassed  as  he  felt.  "I'll  be  toddling 
along." 

9 


BARBARIANS 


"Will  you  say  a  word  to  the  General,  like 
a  good  chap?  Tell  him  how  it  is  with  us— 
four  of  us  all  alone  up  here  since  the  begin 
ning.  There's  Gary,  Captain  in  the  Atha 
basca  Battalion,  a  Yankee  if  the  truth  were 
known;  there's  Flint,  a  cockney  lieutenant  in 
a  Calgary  battery;  there's  young  Gray,  a 
lieutenant  and  a  Prince  Edward  Islander; 
and  here's  me,  a  major  in  the  Yukon  Bat 
talion — four  of  us  on  the  top  of  a  cursed 
French  mountain — ten  months  of  each  other, 
of  solitude,  silence — and  the  whole  world 
rocking  with  battles — and  not  a  sound  up 
here — not  a  whisper!  I  tell  you  we're  four 
sick  men!  "We've  got  a  grip  on  ourselves 
yet,  but  it's  slipping.  We're  still  fairly  civil 
to  each  other,  but  the  strain  is  killing.  Sul 
len  silences  smother  irritability,  but — "  he 
added  in  a  peculiarly  pleasant  voice,  "I  ex 
pect  we  are  likely  to  start  killing  each  other 
if  somebody  doesn't  get  us  out  of  here  very 
damn  quick." 

The  staff  captain's  lips  formed  the  words, 
" Awfully  sorry!  Good  luck!"  but  his  articu- 

10 


MAROONED 


lation  was  indistinct,  and  he  went  off  hur 
riedly,  still  murmuring. 

Carfax  stood  in  the  snow,  watching  him 
clamber  down  among  the  rocks,  where  an 
alpinist  orderly  joined  them. 

Gary  presently  appeared  at  the  door  of 
the  observation  station.  "Has  he  gone!"  he 
inquired,  without  interest. 

"Yes,"  said  Carfax. 

"Is  he  going  to  do  anything  for  us!" 

"I  don't  know.  .  .  .  No!" 

Gary  lingered,  kicked  at  a  salamander, 
then  turned  and  went  indoors.  Carfax  sat 
down  on  a  rock  and  sucked  at  his  empty 
pipe. 

Later  the  three  officers  in  the  observation 
station  came  out  to  the  door  again  and 
looked  at  him,  but  turned  back  into  the  door 
way  without  saying  anything.  And  after  a 
while  Carfax,  feeling  slightly  feverish,  went 
indoors,  too. 

In  the  square,  whitewashed  room  Gray  and 
Flint  were  playing  cut-throat  poker;  Gary 
was  at  the  telephone,  but  the  messages  re 
ceived  or  transmitted  appeared  to  be  of  no 

11 


BARBARIANS 


importance.  There  had  never  been  any  mes 
sage  of  importance  from  the  Falcon  Peak  or 
to  it.  There  was  likely  to  be  none. 

Ennui,  inertia,  dry  rot — and  four  men, 
sometimes  silently,  sometimes  violently  curs 
ing  their  isolation,  but  always  cursing  it — 
afraid  in  their  souls  lest  they  fall  to  cursing 
one  another  aloud  as  they  had  begun  to  curse 
in  their  hearts. 

Months  ago  rain  had  fallen;  now  snow 
fell,  and  vast  winds  roared  around  them  from 
the  Alps.  But  nothing  else  ever  came  to  the 
Falcon  Peak,  except  a  fierce,  red-eyed  Ldm- 
mergeyer  sheering  above  the  peak  on  enor 
mous  pinions,  or  a  few  little  migrating  birds 
fluttering  down,  half  frozen,  from  the  high 
air  lanes.  Now  and  then,  also,  came  to 
them  a  staff  officer  from  below,  British  some 
times,  sometimes  French,  who  lingered  no 
longer  than  necessary  and  then  went  back 
again,  down  into  friendly  deeps  where  were 
trees  and  fields  and  familiar  things  and  hu 
man  companionship,  leaving  them  to  their 
hell  of  silence,  of  solitude,  and  of  each  other. 

The  tide  of  war  had  riever  washed  the  base 
12 


of  their  granite  cliffs;  the  highest  battle  wave 
had  thundered  against  the  Vosges  beyond 
earshot;  not  even  a  deadened  echo  of  war 
penetrated  those  silent  heights;  not  a  Taube 
floated  in  the  zenith. 

In  the  squatty,  whitewashed  ruin  which  once 
had  been  the  eyrie  of  some  petty  predatory 
despot,  and  which  now  served  as  an  observa 
tory  for  two  idle  divisions  below  in  the  val 
ley,  stood  three  telescopes.  Otherwise  the 
furniture  consisted  of  valises,  trunks,  a  table 
and  chairs,  a  few  books,  several  newspapers, 
and  some  tennis  balls  lying  on  the  floor. 

Carfax  seated  himself  at  one  of  the  tele 
scopes,  not  looking  through  it,  his  heavy  eyes 
partly  closed,  his  burnt-out  pipe  between  his 
teeth. 

Gary  rose  from  the  telephone  and  joined 
the  card  players.  They  shuffled  and  dealt 
listlessly,  seldom  speaking  save  in  mono 
syllables. 

After  a  while  Carfax  went  over  to  the 
card  table  and  the  young  lieutenant  cashed  in 
and  took  his  place  at  the  telescope. 

Below   in   the   Alsatian    valley   spring   had 

13 


BARBARIANS 


already  started  the  fruit  buds,  and  a  delicate 
green  edged  the  lower  snow  line. 

The  lieutenant  spoke  of  it  wistfully;  no 
body  paid  any  attention;  he  rose  presently 
and  went  outdoors  to  the  edge  of  the  preci 
pice — not  too  near,  for  fear  he  might  be 
tempted  to  jump  out  through  the  sunshine, 
down  into  that  inviting  world  of  promise 
below. 

Far  underneath  him — very  far  down  in  the 
valley — a  cuckoo  called.  Out  of  the  depths 
floated  the  elfin  halloo,  the  gaily  malicious 
challenge  of  spring  herself,  shouted  up  me 
lodiously  from  the  plains  of  Alsace — Cuckoo! 
Cuckoo!  Cuckoo! — You  poor,  sullen,  frozen 
foreigner  up  there  on  the  snowy  rocks! — 
Cuckoo!  Cuckoo!  Cuckoo  I 

The  lieutenant  of  Yukon  infantry,  whose 
name  was  Gray,  came  back  into  the  room. 

"There's  a  bird  of  sorts  yelling  like  hell 
below,"  he  said  to  the  card  players. 

Carfax  ran  over  his  curds,  rejected  three, 
and  nodded.  "Well,  let  him  yell,"  he  said. 

"What  is  it,  a  Boche  dicky-bird  insulting 
yon?"  asked  Gary,  in  his  Yankee  drawl. 

14 


MAROONED 


Flint,  declining  to  draw  cards,  got  up  and 
went  out  into  the  sunshine.  When  he  re 
turned  to  the  table,  he  said:  "It's  a  cuckoo. 
...  I  wish  to  God  I  were  out  of  this,"  he 
added. 

They  continued  to  play  for  a  while  with 
out  apparent  interest.  Each  man  had  won 
his  comrades'  money  too  many  times  to  care 
when  Carfax  added  up  debit  and  credit  and 
wrote  down  each  man's  score.  In  nine 
months,  alternately  beggaring  one  another, 
they  had  now,  it  appeared,  broken  about  even. 

Gary,  an  American  in  British  uniform, 
twitched  a  newspaper  toward  himself, 
slouched  in  his  chair,  and  continued  to  read 
for  a  while.  The  paper  was  French  and  two 
weeks  old;  he  jerked  it  about  irritably. 

Gray,  resting  his  elbows  on  his  knees,  sat 
gazing  vacantly  out  of  the  narrow  window. 
For  a  smart  officer  he  had  grown  slovenly. 

"If  there  was  any  trout  fishing  to  be  had," 
he  began;  but  Flint  laughed  scornfully. 

"What  are  you  laughing  at?  There  must 
be  trout  in  the  valley  down  there  where  that 
bird  is,"  insisted  Gray,  reddening. 

15 


BARBARIANS 


"Yes,  and  there  are  cows  and  chickens  and 
houses  and  women.  What  of  it!" 

Gary,  in  his  faded  service  uniform  of  a 
captain,  scowled  over  his  newspaper.  "It's 
bad  enough  to  be  here,"  he  said  heavily;  "so 
don't  let's  talk  about  it.  Quit  disputing." 

Flint  ignored  the  order. 

"If  there  was  anything  sportin'  to  do 

"Oh,  shut  up,"  muttered  Carfax.  "Do  you 
expect  sport  on  a  hog-back?" 

Gray  picked  up  a  tennis  ball  and  began  to 
play  it  against  the  whitewashed  stone  wall, 
using  the  palm  of  his  hand.  Flint  joined  him 
presently ;  Gary  went  over  to  the  telephone,  set 
the  receiver  to  his  ear  and  spoke  to  some  officer 
in  the  distant  valley  on  the  French  side,  con 
tinuing  a  spiritless  conversation  while  watch 
ing  the  handball  play.  After  a  while  he  rose, 
shambled  out  and  down  among  the  rocks  to  the 
spring  where  snow  lay,  trodden  and  filthy,  and 
the  big,  black  salamanders  crawled  half  stupe 
fied  in  the  sun.  All  his  loathing  and  fear  of 
them  kindled  again  as  it  always  did  at  sight 
of  them.  "Dirty  beasts,"  he  muttered,  stump 
ing  and  stumbling  among  the  stunted  fir 

16 


MAROONED 


trees;  "some  day  they'll  bite  some  of  these 
damn  fools  who  say  they  can't  bite.  And 
that'll  end  'em." 

Flint  and  Gray  continued  to  play  handball 
in  a  perfunctory  way  while  Carfax  looked  on 
from  the  telephone  without  interest.  Gary 
came  back,  his  shoes  and  puttees  all  over  wet 
snow. 

"Unless,"  he  said  in  a  monotonous  voice, 
"something  happens  within  the  next  few  days 
I'll  begin  to  feel  queer  in  my  head;  and  if  I 
feel  it  coming  on,  I'll  blow  my  bally  nut  off. 
Or  somebody's."  And  he  touched  his  service 
automatic  in  its  holster  and  yawned. 

After  a  dead  silence: 

"Buck  up,"  remarked  Carfax;  "think  how 
our  men  must  feel  in  Belfort,  never  letting 
off  their  guns.  Eoss  rifles,  too — not  a  shot 
at  a  Boche  since  the  damn  war  began !" 

"God!"  said  Flint,  smiting  the  ball  with 
the  palm  of  his  hand,  "to  think  of  those  Ross 
rifles  rusting  down  there  and  to  think  of  the 
pink-skinned  pigs  they  could  paunch  so 
cleanly.  Did  you  ever  paunch  a  deer?  What 
a  mess  of  intestines  all  over  the  shop!" 

17 


BARBARIANS 


Gary,  still  standing,  began  to  kick  the  snow 
from  his  shoes.  Gray  said  to  him:  "For  a 
dollar  of  your  Yankee  money, I'd  give  you  a, 
shot  at  me  with  your  automatic — you're  that 
slack  at  practice." 

"If  it  goes  on  much  longer  like  this  I'll 
not  have  to  pay  for  a  shot  at  anybody,"  re 
turned  Gary,  with  a  short  laugh. 

Gray  laughed  too,  disagreeably,  stretching 
his  facial  muscles,  but  no  sound  issued. 

"We're  all  going  crazy  together  up  here; 
that's  my  idea,"  he  said.  "I  don't  know  which 
I  can  stand  most  comfortably,  your  voices  or 
your  silence.  Both  make  me  sick." 

"Some  day  a  salamander  will  nip  you; 
then  you'll  go  loco,"  observed  Gary,  balanc 
ing  another  tennis  ball  in  his  right  hand. 
"Give  me  a  shot  at  you?"  he  added.  "I  feel 
as  though  I  could  throw  it  clean  through  you. 
You  look  soft  as  a  pudding  to  me." 

Far,  clear,  from  infinite  depths,  the  elf-like 
hail  of  the  cuckoo  came  floating  up  to  the 
window. 

To  Flint,  English  born,  the  call  meant 
more  than  it  did  to  Canadian  or  Yankee. 

18 


MAROONED 


"In  Devon,"  he  said  in  an  altered  voice, 
"they'll  be  calling  just  now.  There's  a  world 
of  primroses  in  Devon.  .  .  .  And  the  thorn  is 
as  white  as  the  damned  snow  is  up  here." 

Gary  growled  his  impatience  and  his  profile 
of  a  Greek  fighter  showed  in  clean  silhouette 
against  the  window. 

"Aw,  hell,"  he  said,  "did  I  come  out  here 
for  this?— nine  months  of  it!"  He  hurled  the 
tennis  ball  at  the  wall.  "Can  the  home  talk, 
if  you  don't  mind." 

The  cuckoo  was  still  calling. 

"Did  you  ever  play  cuckoo,"  asked  Carfax, 
"at  ten  shillings  a  throw?  It's  not  a  bad 
game — if  you're  put  to  it  for  amusement." 

Nobody  replied;  Gray's  sunken,  boyish  face 
betrayed  no  interest ;  he  continued  to  toss  a 
tennis  ball  against  the  wall  and  catch  it  on 
the  rebound. 

Toward  sundown  the  usual  Alpine  chill  set 
in;  a  mist  hung  over  the  snow-edged  cliffs; 
the  rocks  breathed  steam  under  a  foggy  and 
battered  moon. 


CHAPTER   III 

CUCKOO ! 

Carfax,  on  duty,  sat  hunched  up  over  the 
telephone,  reporting  to  the  fortress. 

Gray  came  in,  closed  the  wooden  shutters, 
hung  blankets  over  them,  lighted  an  oil  stove 
and  then  a  candle.  Flint  took  up  the  cards, 
looked  at  Gary,  then  flung  them  aside,  mut 
tering. 

Nobody  attempted  to  read;  nobody  touched 
the  cards  again.  An  orderly  came  in  with 
soup.  The  meal  was  brief  and  perfectly 
silent. 

Flint  said  casually,  after  the  table  had  been 
cleared:  "I  haven't  slept  for  a  month.  If  I 
don't  get  some  sleep  I'll  go  queer.  I  warn 
you;  that's  all.  I'm  sorry  to  say  it,  but 
it's  so." 

"They're  dirty  beasts  to  keep  us  here  like 
20 


CUCKOO! 


this,"  muttered  Gary — "nine  months  of  it,  and 
not  a  shot." 

"There'll  be  a  few  shots  if  things  don't 
change,"  remarked  Flint  in  a  colourless  voice. 
"I'm  getting  wrong  in  my  head.  I  can.  feel 
it." 

Carfax  turned  from  the  switchboard  with 
a  forced  laugh:  "Thinking  of  shooting  up  the 
camp  f ' 

"That  or  myself,"  replied  Flint  in  a  quiet 
voice;  "ever  since  that  cuckoo  called  I've  felt 
queer." 

Gary,  brooding  in  his  soiled  tunic  collar, 
began  to  mutter  presently:  "I  once  knew  a 
man  in  a  lighthouse  down  in  Florida  who 
couldn't  stand  it  after  a  bit  and  jumped  off." 

"Oh,  we've  heard  that  twenty  times,"  in 
terrupted  Carfax  wearily. 

Gray  said:  "What  a  jump! — I  mean  down 
into  Alsace  below " 

"You're  all  going  dotty!"  snapped  Carfax. 
"Shut  up  or  you'll  be  doing  it — some  of  you." 

"I  can't  sleep.  That's  where  I'm  getting 
queer,"  insisted  Flint.  "If  I  could  get  a  few 
hours'  sleep  now — — " 

3  £1 


BARBARIANS 


"I  wish  to  God  the  Boches  could  reach  you 
with  a  big  gun.  That  would  put  you  to  Bleep, 
all  right!"  said  Gray. 

"This  war  is  likely  to  end  before  any  of 
us  see  a  Fritz,"  said  Carfax.  "I  could  stand 
it,  too,  except  being  up  here  with  such" — his 
voice  dwindled  to  a  mutter,  but  it  sounded 
to  Gaiy  as  though  he  had  used  the  word 
"rotters." 

Flint's  face  had  a  white,  strained  expres 
sion;  he  began  to  walk  about,  saying  aloud 
to  himself:  "If  I  could  only  sleep.  That's 
the  idea — sleep  it  off,  and  wake  up  somewhere 
else.  It's  the  silence,  or  the  voices — I  don't 
know  which.  You  dollar-crazy  Yankees  and 
ignorant  Provincials  don't  realize  what  a 
cuckoo  is.  You've  no  traditions,  anyway — 
no  past,  nothing  to  care  for— 

"Listen  to  'Arry!"  retorted  Gary — "'Airy 
and  his  cuckoo!" 

Carfax  stirred  heavily.  "Shut  up!"  he 
said,  with  an  effort.  "The  thing  is  to  keep 
doing  something — something — anything  —  ex 
cept  quarrelling." 

He  picked  up  a  tennis  ball.    "Come  on,  you 

22 


CUCKOO! 


funking  brutes!  I'll  teach  you  how  to  play 
cuckoo.  Every  man  takes  three  tennis  balls 
and  stands  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  I  stand 
in  the  middle.  Then  you  blow  out  the  can 
dle.  Then  I  call  'cuckoo !'  in  the  dark  and  you 
try  to  hit  me,  aiming  by  the  sound  of  my 
voice.  Every  time  I'm  hit  I  pay  ten  shillings 
to  the  pool,  take  my  place  in  a  corner,  and 
have  a  shot  at  the  next  man,  chosen  by  lot. 
And  if  you  throw  three  balls  apiece  and  no 
body  hits  me,  then  you  each  pay  ten  shillings 
to  me  and  I'm  cuckoo  for  another  round." 

"We  aim  at  random?"  inquired  Gray, 
mildly  interested. 

"Certainly.  It  must  be  played  in  pitch 
darkness.  When  I  call  out  cuckoo,  you  take 
a  shot  at  where  you  think  I  am.  If  you  all 
miss,  you  all  pay.  If  I'm  hit,  I  pay." 

Gary  chose  three  tennis  balls  and  retired 
to  a  corner  of  the  room;  Gray  and  Flint, 
urged  into  action,  took  three  each,  unwillingly. 

"Blow  out  the  candle,"  said  Carfax,  who 
had  walked  into  the  middle  of  the  room. 
Gary  blew  it  out  and  the  place  was  in  dark 
ness. 


They  thought  they  heard  Carfax  moving 
cautiously,  and  presently  he  called,  "Cuckoo!" 
A  storm  of  tennis  balls  rebounded  from  the 
walls;  "Cuckoo!"  shouted  Carfax,  and  the 
tennis  balls  rained  all  around  him. 

Once  more  he  called;  not  a  ball  hit  him; 
and  he  struck  a  match  where  he  was  seated 
upon  the  floor. 

There  was  some  perfunctory  laughter  of  a 
feverish  sort;  the  candle  was  relighted,  tennis 
balls  redistributed,  and  Carfax  wrote  down 
his  winnings. 

The  next  time,  however,  Gray,  throwing 
low,  caught  him.  Again  the  candle  was 
lighted,  scores  jotted  down,  a  coin  tossed, 
and  Flint  went  in  as  cuckoo. 

It  seemed  almost  impossible  to  miss  a  man 
so  near,  even  in  total  darkness,  but  Flint 
lasted  three  rounds  and  was  hit,  finally,  a 
stinging  smack  on  the  ear.  And  then  Gary 
went  in. 

It  was  hot  work,  but  they  kept  at  it  fever 
ishly,  grimly,  as  though  their  very  sanity  de 
pended  upon  the  violence  of  their  diversion. 
They  threw  the  balls  hard,  viciously  hard.  A 

24 


CUCKOO! 


sort  of  silent  ferocity  seemed  to  seize  them. 
A  chance  hit  cut  the  skin  over  Flint's  cheek 
bone,  and  when  the  candle  was  lighted,  one 
side  of  his  face  was  bright  with  blood. 

Early  in  the  proceedings  somebody  had 
disinterred  brandy  and  Schnapps  from  under 
a  bunk.  The  room  had  become  close;  they 
all  were  sweating. 

Carfax  emptied  his  iced  glass,  still  breath 
ing  hard,  tossed  a  shilling  and  sent  in  Gary 
as  cuckoo. 

Flint,  who  never  could  stand  spirits,  started 
unsteadily  for  the  candle,  but  could  not  seem 
to  blow  it  out.  He  stood  swaying  and  balanc 
ing  on  his  heels,  puffing  out  his  smooth,  boyish 
cheeks  and  blowing  at  hazard. 

"You're  drunk,"  said  Gray,  thickly;  but  he 
was  as  flushed  as  the  boy  he  addressed,  only 
steadier  of  leg. 

"What's  that?"  retorted  Flint,  jerking  his 
shoulders  around  and  gazing  at  Gray  out  of 
glassy  eyes. 

"Blow  out  that  candle,"  said  Gary  heavily, 
"or  I'll  shoot  it  out!  Do  you  get  that?" 

"Shoot!"    repeated    Flint,    staring    vaguely 

25 


BARBARIANS 


into  Gary's  bloodshot  eyes;  "you  shoot,  you 
old  slacker " 

"Shut  up  and  play  the  game!"  cut  in  Car 
fax,  a  menacing  roar  rising  in  his  voice. 
"You're  all  slackers — and  rotters,  too.  Play 
the  game!  Keep  playing — hard! — or  you'll 
go  clean  off  your  fool  nuts!" 

Gary  walked  heavily  over  and  knocked  the 
tennis  balls  out  of  Flint's  hands. 

"There's  a  better  game  than  that,"  he  said, 
his  articulation  very  thick;  "but  it  takes 
nerve — if  you've  got  it,  you  spindle-legged 
little  cockney!" 

Flint  struck  at  him  aimlessly.  "I've  got 
nerve,"  he  muttered,  "plenty  of  nerve,  old 
top!  What  d'you  want?  I'm  your  man;  I'll 
go  you — eh,  what?" 

"Go  on  with  the  game,  I  tell  you!"  bawled 
Carfax. 

Gary  swung  around:  "Wait  till  I  ex 
plain " 

"No,  don't  wait!  Keep  going!  Keep 
playing!  Keep  doing  something,  for  God's 
sake!" 

26 


CUCKOO! 


"Will  you  wait!"  shouted  Gary.  "I  want 
to  tell  you " 

Carfax  made  a  hopeless  gesture:  "It's  talk 
that  will  do  the  trick  for  us  all " 

"I  want  to  tell  you " 

Carfax  shrugged,  emptied  his  full  glass 
with  a  gesture  of  finality. 

"Then  talk,  damn  you!  'And  we'll  all  be 
at  each  other's  throats  before  morning." 

Gary  got  Gray  by  the  elbow:  "Eeggie,  it's 
this  way.  We  flip  up  for  cuckoo.  Whoever 
gets  stuck  takes  a  shot  apiece  from  our  au 
tomatics  in  the  legs — eh,  what?" 

"It's  perfectly  agreeable  to  me,"  assented 
Gray,  in  the  mincing,  elaborate  voice  char 
acteristic  of  him  when  drunk. 

Flint  wagged  his  head.  "It's  a  sportin* 
game.  I'm  in,"  he  said. 

Gary  looked  at  Carfax.  "A  shot  in  the 
dark  at  a  man's  legs.  And  if  he  gets  his — 
it  will  be  Blighty  in  exchange  for  hell." 

Carfax,  sullen  with  liquor,  shoved  his  big 
hand  into  his  pocket,  produced  a  shilling,  and 
tossed  it. 

A  brighter  flush  stained  the  faces  which 
27 


ringed  him;  the  risky  hazard  of  the  affair 
cleared  their  sick  minds  to  comprehension. 

Tails  turned  uppermost;  Flint  and  Gary 
were  eliminated.  It  lay  between  Carfax  and 
Gray,  and  the  older  man  won. 

"Mind  you  fire  low,"  said  the  young  fel 
low,  with  an  excited  laugh,  and  walked  into 
the  middle  of  the  room. 

Gary  blew  out  the  candle.  Presently  from 
somewhere  in  the  intense  darkness  Gray 
called  "Cuckoo!"  and  instantly  a  slanting  red 
flash  lashed  out  through  the  gloom.  And, 
when  the  deafening  echo  had  nearly  ceased: 
"Cuckoo!" 

Another  pistol  crashed.  And  after  a  swim 
ming  interval  they  heard  him  moving. 
"Cuckoo!"  he  called;  a  level  flame  stabbed 
the  dark;  something  fell,  thudding  through 
the  staccato  uproar  of  the  explosion.  At 
the  same  moment  the  outer  door  opened  on 
the  crack  and  Carfax's  orderly  peeped  in. 

Carfax  struck  a  match  with  shaky  fin 
gers;  the  candle  guttered,  sank,  flared  on 
Flint,  who  was  laughing  without  a  sound. 
"Got  the  beggar,  by  God!"  he  whispered — 

28 


CUCKOO! 

"through  the  head!  Look  at  him.  Look  at 
Keggie  Gray!  Tried  for  his  head  and  got 
him " 

He  reeled  back,  chuckling  foolishly,  and 
levelled  at  Carfax.  "Now  I'll  get  you!" 
he  simpered,  and  shot  him  through  the 
face. 

As  Carfax  pitched  forward,  Gary  fired. 

"Missed  me,  by  God!"  laughed  Flint. 
"Shoot!  Hell,  yes.  I'll  show  you  how  to 
shoot " 

He  struck  the  lighted  candle  with  his  left 
hand  and  laughed  again  in  the  thick  dark 
ness. 

"Shoot?  I'll  show  you  how  to  shoot,  you 
old  slacker " 

Gary  fired. 

After  a  silence  Flint  giggled  in  the  chok 
ing  darkness  as  the  door  opened  cautiously 
again,  and  shot  at  the  terrified  orderly. 

"I'm  a  cockney,  am  I?  And  you  don't 
think  much  of  the  Devon  cuckoos,  do  you? 
Now  I'll  show  you  that  I  understand  all 
kinds  of  cuckoos " 

29 


BARBARIANS 


Both  flashes  split  the  obscurity  at  the  same 
moment.  Flint  fell  back  against  the  wall 
and  slid  down  to  the  floor.  The  outer  door 
began  to  open  again  cautiously. 

But  the  orderly,  half  dressed,  remained 
knee-deep  in  the  snow  by  the  doorway. 

After  a  long  interval  Gary  struck  a  match, 
then  went  over  and  lit  the  candle.  And,  as  he 
turned,  Flint  fired  from  where  he  lay  on  the 
floor  and  Gary  swung  heavily  on  one  heel,  took 
two  uncertain  steps.  Then  his  pistol  fell  clat 
tering;  he  sank  to  his  knees  and  collapsed  face 
downward  on  the  stones. 

Flint,  still  lying  where  he  had  fallen,  partly 
upright,  against  the  wall,  began  to  laugh, 
and  died  a  few  moments  later,  the  wind 
from  the  slowly  opening  door  stirring  his 
fair  hair  and  extinguishing  the  candle. 

And  at  last,  through  the  opened  door  crept 
Carfax's  orderly;  peered  into  the  darkness 
within,  shivering  in  his  unbuttoned  tunic,  his 
boots  wet  with  snow. 

Dawn  already  whitened  the  east;  and  up 
out  of  the  ghastly  fog  edging  the  Ger 
man  Empire,  silhouetted,  monstrous,  against 

so 


CUCKOO! 

the  daybreak,  soared  a  Ldmmergeyer,  beat 
ing  the  livid  void  with  enormous,  unclean 
wings. 

The  orderly  heard  its  scream,  shrank,  cow 
ering,  against  the  door  frame  as  the  huge 
bird's  ferocious  red  and  yellow  eyes  blazed 
level  with  his. 

Suddenly,  above  the  clamor  of  the  Ldm 
mergeyer,  the  shrill  bell  of  the  telephone 
began  to  ring. 

The  terrible  racket  of  the  Ldmmergeyer 
filled  the  sky;  the  orderly  stumbled  into  the 
room,  slipped  in  a  puddle  of  something  wet, 
sent  an  empty  bottle  rolling  and  clinking 
away  into  the  darkness;  stumbled  twice  over 
prostrate  bodies;  reached  the  telephone,  half 
fainting;  whispered  for  help. 

After  a  long,  long  while,  the  horror  still 
thickly  clogging  vein  and  brain,  he  scratched 
a  match,  hesitated,  then  holding  it  high, 
reeled  toward  the  door  with  face  averted. 

Outside  the  sun  was  already  above  the 
horizon,  flashing  over  Haut  Alsace  at  his 
feet. 

si 


The  Ldmmergeyer  was  a  speck  in  the  sky, 
poised  over  France. 

Up  out  of  the  infinite  and  sunlit  chasm 
came  a  mocking,  joyous  hail — up  through  the 
sheer,  misty  gulf  out  of  vernal  depths: 
Cuck-oo  I  Cuck-oo  I  Cuck-oo  I 


CHAPTER  IV 

EECONNAISSANCE 

And  that  was  the  way  Carfax  ended — a 
tiny  tragedy  of  incompetence  compared  to  the 
mountainous  official  fiasco  at  Gallipoli.  Here, 
a  few  perished  among  the  filthy  salamanders 
in  the  snow;  there,  thousands  died  in  the 
burning  Turkish  gorse 

But  that's  history;  and  its  makers  are 
already  officially  damned. 

But  now  concerning  two  others  of  the  fed- 
up  dozen  on  board  the  mule  transport — 
Harry  Stent  and  Jim  Brown.  Destiny  linked 
arms  with  them;  Fate  jerked  a  mysterious 
thumb  over  her  shoulder  toward  Italy. 
Chance  detailed  them  for  special  duty  as 
soon  as  they  landed. 

It  was  a  magnificent  sight,  the  disembark- 

33 


BARBARIANS 


ing  of  the  British  overseas  military  force 
sent  secretly  into  Italy. 

They  continued  to  disembark  and  entrain 
at  night.  Nobody  knew  that  British  troops 
were  in  Italy. 

The  infernal  uproar  along  the  Isonzo  never 
ceased;  the  din  of  the  guns  resounded  through 
the  Trentino,  but  British  and  Canadian  noses 
were  sniffing  at  something  beyond  the  Carnic 
Alps,  along  the  slopes  of  which  they  con 
tinued  to  concentrate,  Rules,  Kilties,  and 
Gunners. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  particular  hurry. 
Details  from  the  Canadian  contingent  were 
constantly  sent  out  to  familiarize  themselves 
with  the  vast  waste  of  tunneled  mountains 
denting  the  Austrian  sky-line  to  the  north 
ward;  and  all  day  long  Dominion  reconnoiter- 
ing  parties  wandered  among  valleys,  alms, 
forest,  and  peaks  in  company  sometimes  with 
Italian  alpinists,  sometimes  by  themselves, 
prying,  poking,  snooping  about  with  all  the 
emotionless  pertinacity  of  Teuton  tourists 
preoccupied  with  wanderlust,  kultur,  and 
ewigkett. 

34 


RECONNAISSANCE 


And  one  lovely  September  morning  the 
British  Military  Observer  with  the  Italian 
army,  and  his  very  British  aid,  sat  on  a 
sunny  rock  on  the  Col  de  la  Eeine  and 
watched  a  Canadian  northward  reconnais 
sance — nothing  much  to  see,  except  a  solitary 
moving  figure  here  and  there  on  the  moun 
tains,  crawling  like  a  deerstalker  across 
ledges  and  stretches  of  bracken — a  few  dots 
on  the  higher  slopes,  visible  for  a  moment, 
then  again  invisible,  then  glimpsed  against 
some  lower  snow  patch,  and  gone  again  be 
yond  the  range  of  powerful  glasses. 

"The  Athabasca  regiment,  13th  Battalion," 
remarked  the  British  Military  Observer; 
"lively  and  rather  noisy." 

"Really,"  observed  his  A.  D.  C. 

"Sturdy,  half-disciplined  beggars,"  con 
tinued  the  B.  M.  0.,  watching  the  mountain 
plank  through  his  glasses;  "every  variety  of 
adventurer  in  their  ranks — cattlemen,  ranch 
men,  Hudson  Bay  trappers,  North  West  po 
lice,  lumbermen,  mail  carriers,  bear  hunters, 
Indians,  renegade  frontiersmen,  soldiers  of 
fortune — a  sweet  lot,  Algy." 

35 


BARBARIANS 


"Ow." 

" — And  half  of  'em  unruly  Yankees — the 
most  objectionable  half,  you  know." 

"A  bad  lot,"  remarked  the  Honorable  Algy. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  the  B.  M.  0.  compla 
cently;  "I've  a  relative  of  sorts  with  'em— 
leftenant,  I  believe — a  Yankee  brother-in- 
law,  in  point  of  fact." 

"Ow." 

"Married  a  step-sister  in  the  States.  Must 
look  him  up  some  day,"  concluded  the  B.  M. 
0.,  adjusting  his  field  glasses  and  focussing 
them  on  two  dark  dots  moving  across  a  dis 
tant  waste  of  alpine  roses  along  the  edge 
of  a  chasm. 

One  of  the  dots  happened  to  be  the  "rela 
tive  of  sorts"  just  mentioned;  but  the 
B.  M.  0.  could  not  know  that.  And  a  mo 
ment  afterward  the  dots  became  invisible 
against  the  vast  mass  of  the  mountain,  and 
did  not  again  reappear  within  the  field  of 
the  English  officer's  limited  vision.  So  he 
never  knew  he  had  seen  his  relative  of  sorts. 

Up  there  on  the  alp,  one  of  the  dots,  which 
at  near  view  appeared  to  be  a  good-looking, 

36 


RECONNAISSANCE 


bronzed  young  man  in  khaki,  puttees,  and 
mountain  shoes,  said  to  the  other  officer  who 
was  scrambling  over  the  rocks  beside  him: 

"Did  you  ever  see  a  better  country  for 
sheep?" 

"Bear,  elk,  goats — it's  sure  a  great  lay 
out,"  returned  the  younger  officer,  a  Canadian 
whose  name  was  Stent. 

"Goats,"  nodded  Brown — "sheep  and  goats. 
This  country  was  made  for  them.  I  fancy 
they  have  chamois  here.  Did  you  ever  see 
one,  Harry!" 

"Yes.  They  have  a  thing  out  here,  too, 
called  an  ibex.  You  never  saw  an  ibex,  did 
you,  Jim!" 

Brown,  who  had  halted,  shook  his  head. 
Stent  stepped  forward  and  stood  silently  be 
side  him,  looking  out  across  the  vast  cleft  in 
the  mountains,  but  not  using  his  field  glasses. 

At  their  feet  the  cliffs  fell  away  sheer 
into  tremendous  and  dizzying  depths;  fir 
forests  far  below  carpeted  the  abyss  like 
wastes  of  velvet  moss,  amid  which  glistened 
a  twisted  silvery  thread — a  river.  A  world 
of  mountains  bounded  the  horizon. 
*  37 


BARBARIANS 


"Better  make  a  note  or  two,"  said  Stent 
briefly. 

They  unslung  their  rifles,  seated  themselves 
in  the  warm  sun  amid  a  deep  thicket  of 
alpine  roses,  and  remained  silent  and  busy 
with  pencil  and  paper  for  a  while — two  in 
conspicuous,  brownish-grey  figures,  cuddled 
close  among  the  greyish  rocks,  with  nothing 
of  military  insignia  about  their  dress  or  their 
round  grey  wool  caps  to  differentiate  them 
from  sportsmen — wary  stalkers  of  chamois 
or  red  deer — except  that  under  their  unbelted 
tunics  automatics  and  cartridge  belts  made 
perceptible  bunches. 

Just  above  them  a  line  of  stunted  firs 
edged  limits  of  perpetual  snow,  and  rocks 
and  glistening  fields  of  crag-broken  white 
carried  the  eye  on  upward  to  the  dazzling 
pinnacle  of  the  Col  de  la  Eeine,  splitting  the 
vast,  calm  blue  above. 

Nothing  except  peaks  disturbed  the  tran 
quil  sky  to  the  northward;  not  a  cloud  hung 
there.  But  westward  mist  clung  to  a  few 
mountain  flanks,  and  to  the  east  it  was  snow 
ing  on  distant  crests. 

38 


RECONNAISSANCE 


Brown,  sketching  rapidly  but  accurately, 
laughed  a  little  under  his  breath. 

"To  think,"  he  said,  "not  a  Boche  dreams 
we  are  in  the  Carnic  Alps.  It's  very  funny, 
isn't  it?  Our  surveyors  are  likely  to  be  here 
in  a  day  or  two,  I  fancy." 

Stent,  working  more  slowly  and  method 
ically  on  his  squared  map  paper,  the  smoke 
drifting  fragrantly  from  his  brier  pipe, 
nodded  in  silence,  glancing  down  now  and 
then  at  the  barometer  and  compass  between 
them. 

"Mentioning  big  game,"  he  remarked  pres 
ently,  "I  started  to  tell  you  about  the  ibex, 
Jim.  I've  hunted  a  little  in  the  Eastern 
Alps." 

"I  didn't  know  it,"  said  Brown,  interested. 

"Yes.  A  classmate  of  mine  at  the  Munich 
Polytechnic  invited  me — Siurd  von  Glahn — a 
splendid  fellow — educated  at  Oxford — just 
like  one  of  us — nothing  of  the  Boche  about 
him  at  all- 
Brown  laughed:  "A  Boche  is  always 
a  Boche,  Harry.  The  black  Prussian 
blood " 

39 


BARBARIANS 


"No;  Siurd  was  all  white.  Really.  A 
charming,  lovable  fellow.  Anyway,  his  dad 
had  a  shooting  where  there  were  chamois, 
reh,  hirsch,  and  the  king  of  all  Alpine  big 
game — ibex.  And  Siurd  asked  me." 

"Did  you  get  an  ibex?"  inquired  Brown, 
sharpening  his  pencil  and  glancing  out  across 
the  valley  at  a  cloud  which  had  suddenly 
formed  there. 

"I  did." 

"What  manner  of  beast  is  it?" 

"It  has  mountain  sheep  and  goats  stung 
to  death.  Take  it  from  me,  Jim,  it's  the  last 
word  in  mountain  sport.  The  chamois  isn't 
in  it.  Pooh,  I've  seen  chamois  within  a  hun 
dred  yards  of  a  mountain  macadam  high 
way.  But  the  ibex?  Not  much!  The  man 
who  stalks  and  kills  an  ibex  has  nothing 
more  to  learn  about  stalking.  Chamois,  red 
deer,  Scotch  stag  make  you  laugh  after  you've 
done  your  bit  in  the  ibex  line." 

"How  about  our  sheep  and  goat?"  inquired 
Brown,  staring  at  his  comrade. 

"It's  harder  to  get  ibex." 

"Nonsense !" 

40 


RECONNAISSANCE 


"It  really  is,  Jim." 

"What  does  your  ibex  resemble?" 

"It's  a  handsome  beast,  ashy  grey  in  sum 
mer,  furred  a  brownish  yellow  in  winter,  and 
with  little  chin  whiskers  and  a  pair  of  big, 
curved,  heavily  ridged  horns,  thick  and  flat 
and  looking  as  though  they  ought  to  belong 
to  something  African,  and  twice  as  big." 

"Some  trophy,  what?"  commented  Brown, 
working  away  at  his  sketches. 

"Bather.  The  devilish  thing  lives  along  the 
perpetual  snow  line ;  and,  for  incredible  stunts 
in  jumping  and  climbing,  it  can  give  points 
to  any  Eocky  Mountain  goat.  You  try  to  get 
above  it,  spend  the  night  there,  and  stalk  it 
when  it  returns  from  nocturnal  grazing  in  the 
stunted  growth  below.  That's  how." 

"And  you  got  one?" 

"Yes.  It  took  six  days.  We  followed  it  for 
that  length  of  time  across  the  icy  mountains, 
Siurd  and  I.  I  thought  I'd  die." 

"Cold  work,  eh?" 

Stent  nodded,  pocketed  his  sketch,  fished  out 
a  packet  of  bread  and  chocolate  from  his  pocket 
and,  rolling  over  luxuriously  in  the  sun  among 

41 


BARBARIANS 


the  alpine  roses,  lunched  leisurely,  flat  on  his 
back. 

Brown  presently  stretched  out  and  reclined 
on  his  elbow ;  and  while  he  ate  he  lazily  watched 
a  kestrel  circling  deep  in  the  gulf  below  him. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  half  to  himself,  "that  this 
is  the  most  beautiful  region  on  earth." 

Stent  lifted  himself  on  both  elbows  and  gazed 
across  the  chasm  at  the  lower  slopes  of  the  aim 
opposite,  all  ablaze  with  dewy  wild  flowers. 
Down  it,  between  fern  and  crag  and  bracken, 
flashed  a  brook,  broken  into  in  silvery  sections 
amid  depths  of  velvet  green  below,  where  evi 
dently  it  tumbled  headlong  into  that  thin,  shin 
ing  thread  which  was  a  broad  river. 

"Yes,"  mused  Stent,  "Siurd  von  Glahn  and 
I  were  comrades  on  many  a  foot  tour  through 
such  mountains  as  these.  He  was  a  delight 
ful  fellow,  my  classmate  Siurd " 

Brown's  swift  rigid  grip  on  his  arm  checked 
him  to  silence;  there  came  the  clink  of  an 
iron-shod  foot  on  the  ledge ;  they  snatched  their 
rifles  from  the  fern  patch;  two  figures  stepped 
around  the  shelf  of  rock,  looming  up  dark 
against  the  dazzling  sky. 

42 


CHAPTER  V 

PABNASSTJS 

Brown,  squatting  cross-legged  among  the 
alpine  roses,  squinted  along  his  level  rifle. 

"Halt!"  he  said  with  a  pleasant,  rising  in 
flection  in  his  quiet  voice.  "Stand  very  still, 
gentlemen,"  he  added  in  German. 

"Drop  your  rifles.  Drop  'em  quick!"  he 
repeated  more  sharply.  "Up  with  your  hands 
— hold  them  up  high !  Higher,  if  you  please ! — 
quickly.  Now,  then,  what  are  you  doing  on  this 
alp?" 

What  they  were  doing  seemed  apparent 
enough — two  gentlemen  of  Teutonic  persua 
sion,  out  stalking  game — deer,  rehbok  or  cha 
mois — one  a  tall,  dark,  nice-looking  young  fel 
low  wearing  the  usual  rough  gray  jacket  with 
stag-horn  buttons,  green  felt  hat  with  feather, 
and  leather  breeches  of  the  alpine  hunter.  His 

48 


BARBARIANS 


knees  and  aristocratic  ankles  were  bare  and 
bronzed.  He  laughed  a  little  as  he  held  up  his 
arms. 

The  other  man  was  stout  and  stocky  rather 
than  fat.  He  had  the  square  red  face  and 
bushy  beard  of  a  beer-nourished  Teuton  and 
the  spectacles  of  a  Herr  Professor.  He  held 
up  his  blunt  hands  with  all  ten  stubby  fingers 
spread  out  wide.  They  seemed  rather  soiled. 

From  his  rucksack  stuck  out  a  butterfly 
net  in  two  sections  and  the  deeply  scalloped, 
silver-trimmed  butt  of  a  sporting  rifle.  Edel 
weiss  adorned  his  green  felt  hat;  a  green  tin 
box  punched  full  of  holes  was  slung  from  his 
broad  shoulders. 

Brown,  lowering  his  rifle  cautiously,  was  al 
ready  getting  to  his  feet  from  the  trampled 
bracken,  when,  behind  him,  he  heard  Stent's 
astonished  voice  break  forth  in  pedantic  Ger 
man: 

"Siurd!  Is  it  thou  then?" 

"Harry  Stent!"  returned  the  dark,  nice-look 
ing  young  fellow  amiably.  And,  in  a  delight 
ful  voice  and  charming  English: 

"Pray,  am  I  to  offer  you  a  shake  hands,"  he 

44 


"Drop    your    rifles.      Drop    'cm,    quick!"    he    repeated    more 

sharply. 


PARNASSUS 


inquired  smilingly;  "or  shall  I  continue  to  in 
voke  the  Olympian  gods  with  classically  up 
lifted  and  imploring  arms?" 

Brown  let  Stent  pass  forward.  Then,  step 
ping  back,  he  watched  the  greeting  between 
these  two  old  classmates.  His  rifle,  grasped 
between  stock  and  barrel,  hung  loosely  between 
both  hands.  His  expression  became  vacantly 
good  humoured ;  but  his  brain  was  working  like 
lightning. 

Stent's  firm  hand  encountered  Von  Glahn's 
and  held  it  in  questioning  astonishment.  Look 
ing  him  in  the  eyes  he  said  slowly:  "Siurd,  it 
is  good  to  see  you  again.  It  is  amazing  to 
meet  you  this  way.  I  am  glad.  I  have  never 
forgotten  you.  .  .  .  Only  a  moment  ago  I  was 
speaking  to  Brown  about  you — of  our  won 
derful  ibex  hunt!  I  was  telling  Brown — my 
comrade — "  he  turned  his  head  slightly  and 
presented  the  two  young  men — "Mr.  Brown, 
an  American " 

"American!"  repeated  Von  Glahn  in  his  gen 
tle,  well-bred  voice,  offering  his  hand.  And,  in 
turn,  becoming  sponsor,  he  presented  his  stocky 
companion  as  Dr.  von  Dresslin;  and  the  cere- 

45 


BARBARIANS 


mony  instantly  stiffened  to  a  more  rigid  eti 
quette. 

Then,  in  his  always  gentle,  graceful  way, 
Von  Glahn  rested  his  hand  lightly  on  Stent's 
shoulder : 

"You  made  us  jump — you  two  Americans — 
as  though  you  had  been  British.  Of  what  could 
two  Americans  be  afraid  in  the  Carnic  Alps 
to  challenge  a  pair  of  wandering  ibex  stalk 
ers  ?" 

"You  forget  that  I  am  Canadian,"  replied 
Stent,  forcing  a  laugh. 

"At  that,  you  are  practically  American  and 
civilian — "  He  glanced  smilingly  over  their 
equipment,  carelessly  it  seemed  to  Stent,  as 
though  verifying  all  absence  of  military  in 
signia.  "Besides,"  he  added  with  his  gentle 
humour,  "there  are  no  British  in  Italy.  And 
no  Italians  in  these  mountains,  I  fancy;  they 
have  their  own  affairs  to  occupy  them  on  the 
Isonzo  I  understand.  Also,  there  is  no  war  be 
tween  Italy  and  Germany." 

Stent  smiled,  perfectly  conscious  of  Brown's 
telepathic  support  in  whatever  was  now  to 
pass  between  them  and  these  two  Germans.  He 

46 


PARNASSUS 


knew,  and  Brown  knew,  that  these  Germans 
must  be  taken  back  as  prisoners;  that,  sus 
picious  or  not,  they  could  not  be  permitted 
to  depart  again  with  a  story  of  having  met 
an  American  and  a  Canadian  after  ibex  among 
the  Carnic  Alps. 

These  two  Germans  were  already  their  pris 
oners;  but  there  was  no  hurry  about  telling 
them  so. 

"How  do  you  happen  to  be  here,  Siurd?" 
asked  Stent,  frankly  curious. 

Von  Glahn  lifted  his  delicately  formed  eye 
brows,  then,  amused: 

"Count  von  Plessis  invites  me;  and" — he 
laughed  outright — "he  must  have  invited  you, 
Harry,  unless  you  are  poaching!" 

"Good  Lord!"  exclaimed  Stent,  for  a  brief 
second  believing  in  the  part  he  was  playing; 
"I  supposed  this  to  be  a  free  alp." 

He  and  Von  Glahn  laughed;  and  the  latter 
said,  still  frankly  amused:  "Soyez  tranquille, 
Messieurs;  Count  von  Plessis  permits  my 
friends — in  my  company — to  shoot  the  Queen's 
aim." 

With  a  lithe  movement,  wholly  graceful,  he 
47 


BARBARIANS 


slipped  the  rucksack  from  his  shoulders,  let 
it  fall  among  the  alpenrosen  beside  his  sport 
ing  rifle. 

"We  have  a  long  day  and  a  longer  night 
ahead  of  us,"  he  said  pleasantly,  looking  from 
Stent  to  Brown.  "The  snow  limit  lies  just 
above  us;  the  ibex  should  pass  here  at  dawn 
on  their  way  back  to  the  peak.  Shall  we  con 
solidate  our  front,  gentlemen — and  make  it 
a  Quadruple  Entente?" 

Stent  replied  instantly:  "We  join  you  with 
thanks,  Siurd.  My  one  ibex  hunt  is  no  expe 
rience  at  all  compared  to  your  record  of  a 
veteran — "  He  looked  full  and  significantly 
at  Brown;  continuing:  "As  you  say,  we  have 
all  day  and — a  long  night  before  us.  Let  us 
make  ourselves  comfortable  here  in  the  sun 
before  we  take — our  final  stations." 

And  they  seated  themselves  in  the  lee  of  the 
crag,  foregathering  fraternally  in  the  warm 
alpine  sunshine. 

The  Herr  Professor  von  Dresslin  grunted 
as  he  sat  down.  After  he  had  lighted  his  pipe 
he  grunted  again,  screwed  together  his  butter- 

48 


PARNASSUS 


fly  net  and  gazed  hard  through  thick-lensed 
spectacles  at  Brown. 

"Does  it  interest  you,  sir,  the  pursuit  of  the 
diurnal  Lepidopteraf  he  inquired,  still  staring 
intently  at  the  American. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  them,"  ex 
plained  Brown.  "What  are  Lepidoptera  ?" 

"The  schmetterling — the  butterfly.  In  Amer- 
ika,  sir,  you  have  many  fine  species,  notably 
Parnassus  clodius  and  the  Parnassus  smintheus 
of  the  four  varietal  forms."  His  prominent 
eyes  shifted  from  one  detail  of  Brown's  cos 
tume  to  another — not  apparently  an  intelligent 
examination,  but  a  sort  of  protruding  and 
indifferent  stare. 

His  gaze,  however,  was  arrested  for  a  mo 
ment  where  the  lump  under  Brown's  tunic  in 
dicated  something  concealed — a  hunting  knife, 
for  example.  Brown's  automatic  was  strapped 
there.  But  the  bulging  eyes,  expressionless 
still,  remained  fixed  for  a  second  only,  then 
travelled  on  toward  the  Koss  rifle — the  Atha 
basca  Eegiment  having  been  permitted  to  ex 
change  this  beloved  weapon  for  the  British 
regulation  piece  recently  issued  to  the  Can- 

49 


BARBARIANS 


adians.  From  behind  the  thick  lenses  of  his 
spectacles  the  Herr  Professor  examined  the 
rifle  while  his  monotonously  dreary  voice  con 
tinued  an  entomological  monologue  for  Brown's 
edification.  And  all  the  while  Von  Glahn  and 
Stent,  reclining  nearby  among  the  ferns,  were 
exchanging  what  appeared  to  be  the  frankest 
of  confidences  and  the  happiest  of  youthful 
reminiscences. 

"Of  the  Parnassians,"  rumbled  on  Professor 
von  Dresslin,  "here  in  the  Alps  we  possess 
one  notable  example — namely,  the  Parnassus 
Apollo.  It  is  for  the  capture  of  this  never-to- 
be-sufficiently  studied  butterfly  that  I  have, 
upon  this  ibex-hunting  expedition,  myself 
equipped  with  net  and  suitable  paraphernalia." 

"I  see,"  nodded  Brown,  eyeing  the  green  tin 
box  and  the  net.  The  Herr  Professor's  pop- 
eyed  attention  was  now  occupied  with  the  serv 
ice  puttees  worn  by  Brown.  A  sportsman  also 
might  have  worn  them,  of  course. 

"The  Apollo  butterfly,"  droned  on  Professor 
Dresslin,  "iss  a  butterfly  of  the  larger  magni 
tude  among  European  Lepidoptera,  yet  not  of 
the  largest.  The  Parnassians,  allied  to  the 

50 


PARNASSUS 


Papilionidse,  all  live  only  in  high  altitudes, 
and  are,  by  the  thinly  scaled  and  always-to-be- 
remembered  red  and  plack  ge-spotted  wings, 
to  be  readily  recognized.  I  haf  already  two 
specimens  captured  this  morning.  I  haff  the 
honour,  sir,  to  exhibit  them  for  your  inspec 
tion " 

He  fished  out  a  flat  green  box  from  his  pocket, 
opened  it  under  Brown's  nose,  leaning  close 
enough  to  touch  Brown  with  an  exploring  and 
furtive  elbow — and  felt  the  contour  of  the 
automatic. 

Amid  a  smell  of  carbolic  and  camphor  cones 
Brown  beheld,  pinned  side  by  side  upon  the 
cork-lined  interior  of  the  box,  two  curiously 
pretty  butterflies. 

Their  drooping  and  still  pliable  wings 
seemed  as  thin  as  white  tissue  paper;  their 
bodies  were  covered  with  furry  hairs.  Brick- 
red  and  black  spots  decorated  the  frail  mem 
brane  of  the  wings  in  a  curiously  pleasing 
harmony  of  pattern  and  of  colour. 

"Very  unusual,"  he  said,  with  a  vague  idea 
he  was  saying  the  wrong  thing. 

Monotonously,  paying  no  attention,  Professor 

51 


BARBARIANS 


von  Dresslin  continued:  "I,  the  life  history  of 
the  Parnassus  Apollo,  haff  from  my  early 
youth  investigated  with  minuteness,  diligence, 
and  patience." — His  protuberant  eyes  were  now 
fixed  on  Brown's  rifle  again. — "For  many  years 
I  haff  bred  this  Apollo  butterfly  from  the  egg, 
from  the  caterpillar,  from  the  chrysalis.  I  have 
the  negroid  forms,  the  albino  forms,  the  dwarf 
forms,  the  hybrid  forms  investigated  under 
effery  climatic  condition.  Notes  sufficient  for 
three  volumes  of  quarto  already  exist  as  a 
residuum  of  my  investigations 

He  looked  up  suddenly  into  the  American's 
face — which  was  the  first  sudden  movement  the 
Herr  Professor  had  made 

"Ach  wass !  Three  volumes !  It  is  nothing. 
There  iss  material  for  thirty! — A  lifetime  iss 
too  short  to  know  all  the  secrets  of  a  single 
species.  ...  If  I  may  inquire,  sir,  of  what 
pattern  is  your  most  interesting  and  admirable 
rifle?" 

"A — Boss,"  said  Brown,  startled  into  a  sec 
ond's  hesitation. 

"So?  And,  if  I  may  inquire,  of  what  nation 
ality  iss  it,  a  K-r-ross?" 

52 


PARNASSUS 


"It's  a  Canadian  weapon.  We  Americans  use 
it  a  great  deal  for  big  game." 

"So?  .  .  .  And  it  iss  also  by  the  Canadian 
military  employed  perhaps,  sir!" 

"I  believe,"  said  Brown,  carelessly,  "that  the 
British  Government  has  taken  away  the  Boss 
rifle  from  the  Canadians  and  given  them  the 
regulation  weapon." 

"So?    Permit — that  I  examine,  sir!" 

Brown  did  not  seem  to  hear  him  or  notice 
the  extended  hand — blunt-fingered,  hairy,  per 
sistent. 

The  Professor,  not  discouraged,  repeated: 
"Sir,  bitte  darf  ich,  may  I  be  permitted?" 
And  Brown's  eyes  flashed  back  a  lightning 
shaft  of  inquiry.  Then,  carelessly  smiling,  he 
passed  the  Eoss  rifle  over  to  the  Herr  Pro 
fessor;  and,  at  the  same  time,  drew  toward  him 
that  gentleman's  silver-mounted  weapon,  and 
carelessly  cocked  it. 

"Permit  me,"  he  murmured,  balancing  it  in 
nocently  in  the  hollow  of  his  left  arm,  appar 
ently  preoccupied  with  admiration  at  the  florid 
workmanship  of  stock  and  guard.  No  move 
ment  that  the  Herr  Professor  made  escaped 

5  53 


BARBARIANS 


him;   but  presently  he   thought   to   himself— 
"The  old  dodo  is  absolutely  unsuspicious.    My 
nerves  are  out  of  order.  .  .  .  What  odd  eyes 
that  Fritz  has!" 

When  Herr  Professor  von  Dresslin  passed 
back  the  weapon  Brown  laid  the  German  sport 
ing  piece  beside  it  with  murmured  complimen 
tary  comment. 

"Yess,"  said  the  German,  "such  rifles  kill 
•when  properly  handled.  We  Germans  may 
cordially  recommend  them  for  our  American 
— friends — "  Here  was  the  slightest  hesita 
tion — "Pardon!  I  mean  that  we  may  safely 
guarantee  this  rifle  to  our  friends." 

Brown  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  thick  lenses 
of  the  spectacles.  The  popeyes  remained  ex 
pressionless,  utterly,  Teutonically  inscrutable. 
A  big  heather  bee  came  buzzing  among  the 
alpenrosen.  Its  droning  hum  resembled  the 
monotone  of  the  Herr  Professor. 

Behind  them  Brown  heard  Stent  saying:  "Do 
yon  remember  our  ambition  to  wear  the  laurels 
of  Parnassus,  Siurd?  Do  you  remember  our 
notes  at  the  lectures  on  the  poets?  And  our 

54 


PARNASSUS 


ambition  to  write  at  least  one  deathless  poem 
apiece  before  we  died?" 

Von  Glahn's  dark  eyes  narrowed  with  merri 
ment  and  his  gentle  laugh  and  attractive  voice 
sounded  pleasantly  in  Brown's  ears. 

"You  wrote  at  least  one  famous  poem  to 
Rosa,"  he  said,  still  laughing. 

"To  Rosa?  Oh!  Rosa  of  the  Cafe  Luitpold! 
By  Jove  I  did,  didn't  I,  Siurd?  How  on  earth 
did  you  ever  remember  that?" 

"I  thought  it  very  pretty."  He  began  to  re 
peat  aloud: 

"Rosa  with  the  Trinsome  eyea, 
When  my  beer  you  bring  to  me; 
I  can  see  through  your  diagmise! 
I  my  goddess  recognize — 
Hebe,  young  immortally, 
Sweet  nepenthe  pouring  me!" 

Stent  laughed  outright: 

"How  funny  to  think  of  it  now — and  to  think 
of  Rosa!  .  .  .  And  you,  Siurd,  do  you  for 
get  that  you  also  composed  a  most  wonderful 
war-poem — to  the  metre  of  'Fly,  Eagle,  Fly!' 
Do  you  remember  how  it  began? 

55 


"Slay,  Eagle,  Slay! 

They  die  who  dare  decry  us! 
Red  dawns  'The  Day.' 

The  western  cliffs  defy  us! 
Turn  their  grey  flood 
To  seas  of  blood! 

And,  as  they  flee,  Slay,  Eagle!  Slay! 
For  God  has  willed  this  German  'Day'!" 

"Enough,"  said  Siurd  Von  Glahn,  still  laugh 
ing,  but  turning  very  red.  "What  a  terrible 
memory  you  have,  Harry!  For  heaven's  sake 
spare  my  modesty  such  accurate  reminis 
cences." 

"I  thought  it  fine  poetry — then,"  insisted 
Stent  with  a  forced  smile.  But  his  voice  had 
subtly  altered. 

They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence,  the 
reminiscent  smile  still  stamped  upon  their  stiff 
ening  lips. 

For  a  brief  moment  the  years  had  seemed 
to  fade — tune  was  not — the  sunshine  of  that 
careless  golden  age  had  seemed  to  warm  them 
once  again  there  where  they  sat  amid  the 
alpenrosen  below  the  snow  line  on  the  Col  de 
la  Reine. 

56 


PARNASSUS 


But  it  did  not  endure;  everything  concern 
ing  earth  and  heaven  and  life  and  death  had 
so  far  remained  unsaid  between  these  two. 
And  never  would  be  said.  Both  understood 
that,  perhaps. 

Then  Von  Glahn's  sidelong  and  preoccupied 
glance  fell  on  Stent's  field  glasses  slung  short 
around  his  neck.  His  rigid  smile  died  out. 
Soldiers  wore  field  glasses  that  way;  hunters, 
when  they  carried  them  instead  of  spyglasses, 
wore  them  en  bandouliere. 

He  spoke,  however,  of  other  matters  in  his 
gentle,  thoughtful  voice — avoiding  always  any 
mention  of  politics  and  war — chatted  on  pleas 
antly  with  the  familiarity  and  insouciance  of 
old  acquaintance.  Once  he  turned  slowly  and 
looked  at  Brown — addressed  him  politely — 
while  his  dark  eyes  wandered  over  the  American, 
noting  every  detail  of  dress  and  equipment,  and 
the  slight  bulge  at  his  belt  line  beneath  the 
tunic. 

Twice  he  found  pretext  to  pick  up  his  rifle, 
but  discarded  it  carelessly,  apparently  not  no 
ticing  that  Stent  and  Brown  always  resumed 
their  own  weapons  when  he  touched  his. 

57 


BARBARIANS 


Brown  said  to  Von  Glahn: 

"Ibei  stalking  is  a  new  game  to  me.  My 
friend  Stent  tells  me  that  you  are  old  at  it" 

"I  have  followed  some  few  ibex,  Mr.  Brown," 
replied  the  yonng  man  modestly.  "And — other 
game,"  he  added  with  a  shmg. 

"I  know  how  it's  done  in  theory,"  continued 
the  American;  "and  I  am  wondering  whether 
we  are  to  lie  in  this  spot  until  dawn  tomor 
row  or  whether  we  climb  higher  and  lie  in  the 
snow  up  there" 

"In  the  snow,  perhaps.  God  knows  exactly 
where  we  shall  lie  tonight — Mr.  Brown." 

There  was  an  odd  look  in  Siurd's  soft  brown 
eyes;  he  turned  and  spoke  to  Herr  Professor 
yon  Dresslin,  using  dialect — and  instantly  ap 
pearing  to  recollect  himself  he  asked  pardon 
of  Stent  and  Brown  in  his  very  perfect  Eng 
lish. 

"I  said  to  the  Herr  Professor  in  the  Traun 
dialect:  Ibex  may  be  stirring,  as  it  is  already 
late  afternoon.  We  ought  now  to  use  our 
glasses/  My  family,"  he  added  apologetically, 
"come  from  the  Traunwald;  I  forget  and  em 
ploy  the  vernacular  at  times." 

58 


PARNASSUS 


The  Herr  Professor  unslung  his  telescope, 
set  his  rifle  upright  on  the  moss,  and,  kneel 
ing,  balanced  the  long  spyglass  alongside  of 
the  blued-steel  barrel,  resting  it  on  his  hand 
as  an  archer  fits  the  arrow  he  is  drawing  on 
the  bowstring. 

Instantly  both  Brown  and  Stent  thought  of 
the  same  thing:  the  chance  that  these  Ger 
mans  might  spy  others  of  the  Athabasca  regi 
ment  prowling  among  the  ferns  and  rocks  of 
neighbouring  slopes.  The  game  was  nearly 
at  an  end,  anyway. 

They  exchanged  a  glance;  both  picked  up 
their  rifles ;  Brown  nodded  almost  impercept 
ibly.  The  tragic  comedy  was  approaching  its 
close. 

"Hirsch"  grunted  the  Herr  Professor — "und 
stuck — on  the  north  aim" — staring  through  his 
telescope  intently. 

"Accorded,"  said  Siurd  Von  Glahn,  balancing 
his  spyglass  and  sweeping  the  distant  erags. 
"Stuck  on  the  western  shoulder,"  he  added— 
"and  a  stag  royal  among  them." 

"Of  ten?" 

"Of  twelve." 

59 


BARBARIANS 


After  a  silence:  "Why  are  they  galloping— 
I  wonder — the  herd-stag  an'd  stuck?" 

Brown  very  quietly  laid  one  hand  on  Stent's 
arm. 

"A  geier,  perhaps,"  suggested  Siurd,  his  eye 
glued  to  his  spyglass. 

"No  ibex!"  asked  Stent  in  a  voice  a  little 
forced. 

"Nodi  niclit,  mon  ami.  Tiens!  A  gemslok — 
high  on  the  third  peak — feeding." 

"Accorded,"  grunted  the  Herr  Professor 
after  an  interval  of  search;  and  he  closed  his 
spyglass  and  placed  his  rifle  on  the  moss. 

His  staring,  protuberant  eyes  fell  casually 
upon  Brown,  who  was  laying  aside  his  own 
rifle  again — and  the  German's  expression  did 
not  alter. 

"Ibex !"  exclaimed  Von  Glahn  softly. 

Stent,  rising  impulsively  to  his  feet,  brack- 
etted  his  field  glasses  on  the  third  peak,  and 
stood  there,  poised,  slim  and  upright  against 
the  sky  on  the  chasm's  mossy  edge. 

"I  don't  see  your  ibex,  Siurd,"  he  said,  still 
searching. 

"On    the    third    peak,    mon    ami" — drawing 
60 


PARNASSUS 


Stent  familiarly  to  his  side — the  lightest  ca 
ressing  contact — merely  enough  to  verify  the 
existence  of  the  automatic  under  his  old  class 
mate's  tunic. 

If  Stent  did  not  notice  the  impalpable  touch, 
neither  did  Brown  notice  it,  watching  them. 
Perhaps  the  Herr  Professor  did,  but  it  is  not 
at  all  certain,  because  at  that  moment  there 
came  flopping  along  over  the  bracken  and  alpen- 
rosen  a  loppy  winged  butterfly — a  large,  whit 
ish  creature,  seeming  uncertain  in  its  irreso 
lute  flight  whether  to  alight  at  Brown's  feet  or 
go  flapping  aimlessly  on  over  Brown's  head. 

The  Herr  Professor  snatched  up  his  net — 
struck  heavily  toward  the  winged  thing — a  si 
lent,  terrible,  sweeping  blow  with  net  and  rifle 
clutched  together.  Brown  went  down  with  a 
crash. 

At  the  shocking  sound  of  the  impact  Stent 
wheeled  from  the  abyss,  then  staggered  back 
under  the  powerful  shove  from  Von  Grlahn's 
nervous  arm.  Swaying,  fighting  frantically  for 
foothold,  there  on  the  chasm's  awful  edge,  he 
balanced  for  an  instant ;  fought  for  equilibrium. 
Von  Glahn,  rigid,  watched  him.  Then,  deathly 

61 


BARBARIANS 


white,  his  young  eyes  looking  straight  into  the 
eyes  of  his  old  classmate — Stent  lost  the  fight, 
fell  outward,  wider,  dropping  back  into  mid 
air,  down  through  sheer,  tremendous  depths- 
down  there  where  the  broad  river  seemed  only 
a  silver  thread  and  the  forests  looked  like  beds 
of  tender,  velvet  moss. 

After  him,  fluttering  irresolutely,  flitted  Par 
nassus  Apollo,  still  winging  its  erratic  way 
where  God  willed  it — a  frail,  dainty,  trans 
lucent,  wind-blown  fleck  of  white  above  the  gulf 
— symbol,  perhaps  of  the  soul  already  soaring 
up  out  of  the  terrific  deeps  below. 

The  Herr  Professor  sweated  and  panted  as 
he  tugged  at  the  silk  handkerchief  with  which 
he  was  busily  knotting  the  arms  of  the  uncon 
scious  American  behind  his  back. 

"Pouf!  Ugh!  Pig-dog!"  he  grunted— "mit 
his  pockets  full  of  automatic  clips.  A  Yankee, 
eh?  What  I  tell  you,  Siurd  t — English  and 
Yankee  they  are  one  in  blood  and  one  at 
heart — pig-dogs  effery  one.  Hey,  Siurd,  what 
I  told  you  already  gesternabendf  The  British 
schwein  are  in  Italy  already.  Hola!  Siurd! 
Take  hig  feet  and  we  turn  him  over  mal !" 

62 


PARNASSUS 


But  Von  Glahn  remained  motionless,  leaning 
heavily  against  the  crag,  his  back  to  the  abyss, 
his  blond  head  bnried  in  both  arms. 

So  the  Herr  Professor,  who  was  a  major,  too, 
began,  with  his  powerful,  stubby  hands,  to  pull 
the  unconscious  man  over  on  his  back.  And, 
as  he  worked,  he  hummed  monotonously  but 
contentedly  in  his  bushy  beard  something  about 
something  being  "iiber  alles" — God,  perhaps, 
perhaps  the  blue  sky  overhead  which  covered 
him  and  his  sickened  friend  alike,  and  the  hurt 
enemy  whose  closed  lids  shut  out  the  sky  above 
— and  the  dead  man  lying  very,  very  far  below 
them — where  river  and  forest  and  moss  and 
Parnassus  were  now  alike  to  him. 


CHAPTER   VI 

IN    FINISTERE 

It  was  a  dirty  trick  that  they  played  Stent 
and  Brown — the  three  Mysterious  Sisters,  Fate, 
Chance,  and  Destiny.  But  they're  always  billed 
for  any  performance,  be  it  vaudeville  or  trag 
edy;  and  there's  no  use  hissing  them  off: 
they'll  dog  you  from  the  stage  entrance  if  they 
take  a  fancy  to  you. 

They  dogged  Wayland  from  the  dock  at 
Calais,  where  the  mule  transport  landed,  all 
the  way  to  Paris,  then  on  a  slow  train  to  Quim- 
perle,  and  then,  by  stagecoach,  to  that  little 
lost  house  on  the  moors,  where  ties  held  him 
most  closely — where  all  he  cared  for  in  this 
world  was  gathered  under  a  humble  roof. 

In  spite  of  his  lameness  he  went  duck-shoot 
ing  the  week  after  his  arrival.  It  was  rather 
forcing  his  convalescence,  but  he  believed  it 

64 


would  accelerate  it  to  go  about  in  the  open  air, 
as  though  there  were  nothing  the  matter  with 
his  shattered  leg. 

So  he  hobbled  down  to  the  point  he  knew  so 
well.  He  had  longed  for  the  sea  off  Eryx. 
It  thundered  at  his  feet. 

And,  now,  all  around  him  through  clamor 
ous  obscurity  a  watery  light  glimmered;  it 
edged  the  low-driven  clouds  hurrying  in  from 
the  sea;  it  outlined  the  long  point  of  rocks 
thrust  southward  into  the  smoking  smother. 

The  din  of  the  surf  filled  his  ears;  through 
flying  patches  of  mist  he  caught  glimpses  of 
rollers  bursting  white  against  the  reef;  heard 
duller  detonations  along  unseen  sands,  and 
shattering  reports  where  heavy  waves  ex 
ploded  among  basalt  rocks. 

His  lean  face  of  an  invalid  glistened  with 
spray;  salt  water  dripped  from  cap  and  coat, 
spangled  the  brown  barrels  of  his  fowling- 
piece,  and  ran  down  the  varnished  supports  of 
both  crutches  where  he  leaned  on  them,  braced 
forward  against  an  ever-rising  wind. 

At  moments  he  seemed  to  catch  glimpses  of 
darker  specks  dotting  the  heaving  flank  of  some 

65 


BARBARIANS 


huge  wave.  But  it  was  not  until  the  wild  ducks 
rose  through  the  phantom  light  and  came  whir 
ring  in  from  the  sea  that  his  gun,  poked  stiffly 
skyward,  flashed  in  the  pallid  void.  And  then, 
sometimes,  he  hobbled  back  after  the  dead 
quarry  while  it  still  drove  headlong  inland, 
slanting  earthward  before  the  gale. 

Once,  amid  the  endless  thundering,  in  the 
turbulent  desolation  around  him,  through  the 
roar  of  wind  in  his  ears,  he  seemed  to  catch 
deadened  sounds  resembling  distant  seaward 
cannonading  —  real  cannonading  —  as  though 
individual  shots,  dully  distinct,  dominated 
for  a  few  moments  the  unbroken  uproar  of 
surf  and  gale. 

He  listened,  straining  his  ears,  alert,  in 
tent  upon  the  sounds  he  ought  to  recognize 
—the  sounds  he  knew  so  well. 

Only  the  ceaseless  pounding  of  the  sea 
assailed  his  ears. 

Three  wild  duck,  widgeon,  came  speeding 
through  the  fog;  he  breasted  the  wind,  bal 
anced  heavily  on  both  crutches  and  one  leg, 
and  shoved  his  gun  upward. 

At  the  same  instant  the  mist  in  front  and 
66 


IN   FINISTERE 


overhead  became  noisy  with  wild  fowl,  ris 
ing  in  one  great,  panic-stricken,  clamoring 
cloud.  He  hesitated;  a  muffled,  thudding 
sound  came  to  him  over  the  unseen  sea,  grow 
ing  louder,  nearer,  dominating  the  gale,  in 
creasing  to  a  rattling  clatter. 

Suddenly  a  great  cloudy  shape  loomed  up 
through  the  whirling  mist  ahead — an  enor 
mous  shadow  in  the  fog — a  gigantic  spectre 
rushing  inland  on  vast  and  ghostly  pinions. 

As  the  man  shrank  on  his  crutches,  look 
ing  up,  the  aeroplane  swept  past  overhead — 
a  wounded,  wavering,  unsteady,  unbalanced 
thing,  its  right  aileron  dangling,  half  stripped, 
and  almost  mangled  to  a  skeleton. 

Already  it  was  slanting  lower  toward  the 
forest  like  a  hard-hit  duck,  wing-crippled, 
fighting  desperately  for  flight-power  to  the 
very  end.  Then  the  inland  mist  engulfed  it. 

And  after  it  hobbled  Wayland,  painfully, 
two  brace  of  dead  ducks  and  his  slung  fowl 
ing  piece  bobbing  on  his  back,  his  rubbeu- 
shod  crutches  groping  and  probing  among 
drenched  rocks  and  gullies  full  of  kelp,  big 
left  leg  in  splints  hanging  heavily. 

67 


BARBARIANS 


He  could  not  go  fast;  he  could  not  go 
very  far.  Further  inland,  foggy  gorse  gave 
place  to  broom  and  blighted  bracken,  all  wet, 
sagging  with  rain.  Then  he  crossed  a  swale 
of  brown  reeds  and  tussock  set  with  little 
pools  of  water,  opaque  and  grey  in  the  rain. 

Where  the  outer  moors  narrowed  he  turned 
westward;  then  a  strip  of  low,  thorn-clad 
cliff  confronted  him,  up  which  he  toiled  along 
a  V-shaped  cleft  choked  with  ferns. 

The  spectral  forest  of  Lais  lay  just  be 
yond,  its  wind-tortured  branches  tossing  under 
a  leaden  sky. 

East  and  west  lonely  moors  stretched  away 
into  the  depths  of  the  mist;  southward  spread 
the  sea;  to  the  north  lay  the  wide  woods  of 
Lais,  equally  deserted  now  in  this  sad  and 
empty  land. 

He  hobbled  to  the  edge  of  the  forest  and 
stood  knee  deep  in  discoloured  ferns,  listen 
ing.  The  sombre  beech-woods  spread  thick 
on  either  hand,  a  wilderness  of  crossed  limbs 
and  meshed  branches  to  which  still  clung 
great  clots  of  dull  brown  leaves. 

He  listened,  peering  into  sinister,  grey 
68 


72V   FINISTERE 


depths.  In  the  uncertain  light  nothing  stirred 
except  the  clashing  branches  overhead;  there 
was  no  sound  except  the  wind's  flowing  roar 
and  the  ghostly  noise  of  his  own  voice,  halloo 
ing  through  the  solitude — a  voice  in  the  misty 
void  that  seemed  to  carry  less  sound  than 
the  straining  cry  of  a  sleeper  in  his  dreams. 

If  the  aeroplane  had  landed,  there  was  no 
sign  here.  How  far  had  it  struggled  on, 
sheering  the  tree-tops,  before  it  fell? — if  in 
deed  it  had  fallen  somewhere  in  the  wood's 
grey  depths? 

As  long  as  he  had  sufficient  strength  he 
prowled  along  the  forest,  entering  it  here 
and  there,  calling,  listening,  searching  the 
foggy  corridors  of  trees.  The  rotting  brake 
crackled  underfoot;  the  tree  tops  clashed  and 
creaked  above  him. 

At  last,  having  only  enough  strength  left 
to  take  him  home,  he  turned  away,  limping 
through  the  blotched  and  broken  ferns,  his 
crippled  leg  hanging  stiffly  in  its  splints,  his 
gun  and  the  dead  ducks  bobbing  on  his  back. 

The  trodden  way  was  soggy  with  little 
pools  full  of  drenched  grasses  and  dead 
«  69 


BARBARIANS 


leaves;  but  at  length  came  rising  ground, 
and  the  blue-green,  glimmering  wastes  of 
gorse  stretching  away  before  him  through  the 
curtained  fog. 

A  sheep  path  ran  through;  and  after  a  lit 
tle  while  a  few  trees  loomed  shadowy  in  the 
mist,  and  a  low  stone  house  took  shape, 
whitewashed,  flanked  by  barn,  pigpen,  and  a 
stack  of  rotting  seaweed. 

A  few  wet  hens  wandered  aimlessly  by  the 
doorstep;  a  tiny  bed  of  white  clove-pinks 
and  tall  white  phlox  exhaled  a  homely  wel 
come  as  the  lame  man  hobbled  up  the  steps, 
pulled  the  leather  latchstrmg,  and  entered. 

In  the  kitchen  an  old  Breton  woman,  chop 
ping  herbs,  looked  up  at  him  out  of  aged 
eyes,  shaking  her  head  under  its  white  coiffe. 

"It  is  nearly  noon,"  she  said.  "You  have 
been  out  since  dawn.  Was  it  wise,  for  a  con 
valescent,  Monsieur  Jacques?" 

"Very  wise,  Marie-Josephine.  Because  the 
more  exercise  I  take  the  sooner  I  shall  be 
able  to  go  back." 

"It  is  too  soon  to  go  out  in  such  weather." 

"Ducks  fly  inland  only  in  such  weather," 
70 


IN   FINISTERE 


he    retorted,    smiling.      "And    we    like    roast 
widgeon,  you   and  I,  Marie-Josephine." 

And  all  the  while  her  aged  blue  eyes  were 
fixed  on  him,  and  over  her  withered  cheeks 
the  soft  bloom  came  and  faded — that  pretty 
colour  which  Breton  women  usually  retain 
until  the  end. 

"Thou  knowest,  Monsieur  Jacques,"  she 
said,  with  a  curiously  quaint  mingling  of 
familiarity  and  respect,  "that  I  do  not  coun 
sel  caution  because  I  love  thee  and  dread 
for  thee  again  the  trenches.  But  with  thy 
leg  hanging  there  like  the  broken  wing  of  a 
vanneau " 

He  replied  good  humouredly: 

"Thou  dost  not  know  the  Legion,  Marie- 
Josephine.  Every  day  in  our  trenches  we 
break  a  comrade  into  pieces  and  glue  him 
together  again,  just  to  make  him  tougher. 
Broken  bones,  once  mended,  are  stronger 
than  before." 

He  was  looking  down  at  her  where  she  sat 
by  the  hearth,  slicing  vegetables  and  herbs, 
but  watching  him  all  the  while  out  of  her 
lovely,  faded  eyes. 

71 


BARBARIANS 


"I  understand,  Monsieur  Jacques,  that  you 
are  like  your  father — God  knows  he  was 
kardy  and  without  fear-=to  the  last" — she 
dropped  her  head — "Mary,  glorious — inter 
cede —  '  she  muttered  over  her  bowl  of  herbs. 

Wayland,  resting  on  his  crutches,  unslnng 
his  ducks,  laid  them  on  the  table,  smoothed 
their  beautiful  heads  and  breasts,  then 
slipped  the  soaking  bandouliere  of  his  gun 
from  his  shoulder  and  placed  the  dripping 
piece  against  the  chimney  corner. 

"After  I  have  scrubbed  myself,"  he  said, 
"and  have  put  on  dry  clothes,  I  shall  come  to 
luncheon;  and  I  shall  have  something  very 
strange  to  tell  you,  Marie-Josephine." 

He  limped  away  into  one  of  the  two  re 
maining  rooms — the  other  was  hers — and 
closed  his  door. 

Marie-Josephine  continued  to  prepare  the 
soup.  There  was  an  egg  for  him,  too;  and 
a  slice  of  cold  pork  and  a  brioche  and  a  jug 
of  cider. 

In  his  room  Wayland  was  whistling  "Tip- 
pcrary." 

Now  and  again,  pausing  in  her  work,  she 


IN   FINISTERE 


turned  her  eyes  to  his  closed  door — wonder 
ful  eyes  that  became  miracles  of  tenderness 
as  she  listened. 

He  came  out,  presently,  dressed  in  his  odd, 
ill-fitting  uniform  of  the  Legion,  tunic  unbut 
toned,  collarless  of  shirt,  his  bright,  thick 
hair,  now  of  decent  length,  in  boyish  dis 
order. 

Delicious  odours  of  soup  and  of  Breton 
cider  greeted  him;  he  seated  himself;  Marie- 
Josephine  waited  on  him,  hovered  over  him, 
tucked  a  sack  of  feathers  under  his  maimed 
leg,  placed  his  crutches  in  the  corner  beside 
the  gun. 

Still   eating,  leisurely,  he  began: 

"Marie- Josephine  —  a  strange  thing  has 
happened  on  Quesnel  Moors  which  troubles 
me.  .  .  .  Listen  attentively.  It  was  while 
waiting  for  ducks  on  the  Eryx  Eocks,  that 
once  I  thought  I  heard  through  the  roar  of 
wind  and  sea  the  sound  of  a  far  cannonad 
ing.  But  I  said  to  myself  that  it  was  only 
the  imagination  of  a  haunted  mind;  that  i«. 
my  ears  still  thundered  the  cannonade  of 
Lens." 

73 


"Was  it  nevertheless  true?"  She  had 
turned  around  from  the  fire  where  her  own 
soup  simmered  in  the  kettle.  As  she  spoke 
again  she  rose  and  came  to  the  table. 

He  said:  "It  must  have  been  cannon  that 
I  heard.  Because,  not  long  afterward,  out 
of  the  fog  came  a  great  aeroplane  rushing 
inland  from  the  sea — flying  swiftly  above  me 
—right  over  me! — and  staggering  like  a 
wounded  duck — it  had'  one  aileron  broken — 
and  sheered  away  into  the  fog,  northward, 
Marie-  Josephine." 

Her  work-worn  hands,  tightly  clenched, 
rested  now  on  the  table  and  she  leaned  there, 
looking  down  at  him. 

"Was  it  an  enemy — this  airship,  Jacques?" 

"In  the  mist  flying  and  the  ragged  clouds 
I  could  not  tell.  It  might  have  been  Eng 
lish.  It  must  have  been,  I  think — coming  as 
it  came  from  the  sea.  But  I  am  troubled, 
Marie-Josephine.  Were  the  guns  at  sea  an 
enemy's  guns  7  Did  the  aeroplane  come  to 
earth  in  safety?  Where?  In  the  Forest  of 
Lai's?  I  found  no  trace  of  it." 

74 


72V   FINISTERE 


She  said,  tremulous  perhaps  from  standing 
too  long  motionless  and  intent: 

"Is  it  possible  that  the  Boches  would  come 
into  these  solitary  moors,  where  there  are 
no  people  any  more,  only  the  creatures  of  the 
Lai's  woods,  and  the  curlew  and  the  lapwings 
which  pass  at  evening?" 

He  ate  thoughtfully  and  in  silence  for  a 
while;  then: 

"They  go,  usually  —  the  Boches  —  where 
there  is  plunder — murder  to  be  done.  .  .  . 
Spying  to  be  done.  .  .  .  God  knows  what  pur 
pose  animates  the  Huns.  .  .  .  After  all,  Lori- 
ent  is  not  so  far  away.  .  .  .  Yet  it  surely 
must  have  been  an  English  aeroplane,  beaten 
off  by  some  enemy  ship — a  submarine  per 
haps.  God  send  that  the  rocks  of  the  Isle 
des  Chouans  take  care  of  her — with  their 
teeth!" 

He  drank  his  cider — a  sip  or  two  only — 
then,  setting  aside  the  glass: 

"I  w^ent  from  the  Eocks  of  Eryx  to  Lai's 
Woods.  I  called  as  loudly  as  I  could;  the 
wind  whirled  my  voice  back  into  my  throat. 
...  I  am  not  yet  very  strong.  .  .  . 

75 


BARBARIANS 


"Then  I  went  into  the  wood  as  far  as  my 
strength  permitted.  I  heard  and  saw  nothing, 
Marie-Josephine." 

"Wonld  they  be  dead?"  she  asked. 

"They  were  planing  to  earth.  I  don't  know 
how  much  control  they  had,  whether  they 
could  steer — choose  a  landing  place.  There 
are  plenty  of  safe  places  on  these  moors." 

"If  their  airship  is  crippled,  what  can  they 
do,  these  English  flying  men,  out  there  on 
the  moors  in  the  rain  and  wind?  When  the 
coast  guard  passes  we  must  tell  him." 

"After  lunch  I  shall  go  out  again  as  far 
as  my  strength  allows.  ...  If  the  rain  would 
cease  and  the  mist  lift,  one  might  see  some 
thing — be  of  some  use,  perhaps— 

"Ought  you  to  go,  Monsieur  Jacques?" 

"Could  I  fail  to  try  to  find  them— English 
men — and  perhaps  injured?  Surely  I  should 
go,  Marie-Josephine." 

"The  coast  guard " 

"He  passed  the  Eryx  Rocks  at  daylight. 
He  is  at  Sainte-Ylva  now.  Tonight,  when 
I  aee  his  comrade's  lantern,  I  shall  stop  him 

76 


IN   FINISTERE 


and  report.  But  in  the  meanwhile  I  must  go 
out  and  search." 

"Spare  thyself — for  the  trenches,  Jacques. 
Remain  indoors  today."  She  began  to  unpin 
the  coiffe  which  she  always  wore  ceremoni 
ously  at  meals  when  he  was  present. 

He  smiled:  "Thou  knowest  I  must  go, 
Marie-Josephine." 

"And  if  thou  come  upon  them  in  the  for 
est  and  they  are  Huns!" 

He  laughed:  "They  are  English,  I  tell  thee, 
Marie- Josephine !" 

She  nodded;  under  her  breath,  staring  at 
the  rain-lashed  window:  "Like  thy  father, 
thou  must  go  forth,"  she  muttered;  "go  al 
ways  where  thy  spirit  calls.  And  once  he 
went.  And  came  no  more.  And  God  help 
us  all  in  Finistere,  where  all  are  born  to 
grief." 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE   AIRMAN 

She  had  seated  herself  on  a  stool  by  the 
hearth.  Presently  she  spread  her  apron  with 
trembling  fingers,  took  the  glazed  bowl  of 
soup  upon  her  lap  and  began  to  eat,  slowly, 
casting  long,  unquiet  glances  at  him  from 
time  to  time  where  he  still  at  table  leaned 
heavily,  looking  out  into  the  rain. 

When  he  caught  her  eye  he  smiled,  sum 
moning  her  with  a  nod  of  his  boyish  head. 
She  set  aside  her  bowl  obediently,  and,  rising, 
brought  him  his  crutches.  And  at  the  same 
moment  somebody  knocked  lightly  on  the 
outer  door. 

Marie-Josephine  had  unpinned  her  coiffe. 
Now  she  pinned  it  on  over  her  bonnet  before 
going  to  the  door,  glancing  uneasily  around 
at  him  while  she  tied  her  tresses  and  settled 

78 


the    delicate    starched   wings    of   her   bonnet. 

"That's  odd,"  he  said,  "that  knocking," 
staring  at  the  door.  "Perhaps  it  is  the  lost 
Englishman." 

"God  send  them,"  she  whispered,  going  to 
the  door  and  opening  it. 

It  certainly  seemed  to  be  one  of  the  lost 
Englishmen — a  big,  square-shouldered,  blond 
young  fellow,  tall  and  powerful,  in  the  leather 
dress  of  an  aeronaut.  His  glass  mask  was 
lifted  like  the  visor  of  a  tilting  helmet, 
disclosing  a  red,  weather-beaten  face,  wet 
with  rain.  Strength,  youth,  rugged  health 
was  their  first  impression  of  this  leather-clad 
man  from  the  clouds. 

He  stepped  inside  the  house  immediately, 
halted  when  he  caught  sight  of  Wayland  in 
his  undress  uniform,  glanced  involuntarily  at 
his  crutches  and  bandaged  leg,  cast  a  quick, 
penetrating  glance  right  and  left;  then  he 
spoke  pleasantly  in  his  hesitating,  imperfect 
French — so  oddly  imperfect  that  Wayland 
could  not  understand  him  at  all. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  demanded  in  English. 

The  airman   seemed  astonished  for  an  in- 

79 


BARBARIANS 


slant,   then   a  quick   smile  broke   out   on   his 
ruddy  features: 

"I  say,  this  is  lucky!  Fancy  finding  an 
Englishman  here! — wherever  this  place  may 
be."  He  laughed.  "Of  course  I  know  I'm 
'somewhere  in  France/  as  the  censor  has  it, 
but  I'm  hanged  if  I  know  where!" 

"Come  in  and  shut  the  door,"  said  Way- 
land,  reassured.  Marie-Josephine  closed  the 
door.  The  aeronaut  came  forward,  stood 
dripping  a  moment,  then  took  the  chair  to 
which  Wayland  pointed,  seating  himself  as 
though  a  trifle  tired. 

"Shot  down,"  he  explained,  gaily.  "An 
enemy  submarine  winged  us  out  yonder  some 
where.  I  tramped  over  these  bally  moors 
for  hours  before  I  found  a  sign  of  any  path. 
A  sheepwalk  brought  me  here." 

"You  are  lucky.  There  is  only  one  house 
on  these  moors — this!  Who  are  you?"  asked 
Wayland. 

"West — flight-lieutenant,  10th  division,  Cin 
que-Ports  patrolling  squadron." 

"Good  heavens,  man!  What  are  you  doing 
in  Finistere?" 

80 


THE   AIRMAN 


"What!" 

"You  are  in  Brittany,  province  of  Finis- 
tere.  Didn't  you  know  it?" 

The  air-officer  seemed  astounded.  Pres 
ently  he  said:  "The  dirty  weather  foxed  us. 
Then  that  fellow  out  yonder  winged  us.  I 
was  glad  enough  to  see  a  coast  line." 

"Did  you  fall?" 

"No;  we  controlled  our  landing  pretty 
well." 

"Where  did  you  land?" 

There  was  a  second's  hesitation;  the  air 
man  looked  at  Wayland,  glanced  at  his  crip 
pled  leg. 

"Out  there  near  some  woods,"  he  said. 
"My  pilot's  there  now  trying  to  patch  up. 
.  .  .  You  are  not  French,  are  you?" 

"American." 

"Oh!     A — volunteer,  I  presume." 

"Foreign  Legion — 2d." 

"I  see.  Back  from  the  trenches  with  a 
leg." 

"It's  nearly  well.     I'll  be  back  soon." 

"Can    you    walk?"    asked    the    airman    so 

81 


BARBARIANS 


abruptly  that  Wayland,  looking  at  him,  hesi 
tated,  he  did  not  quite  know  why. 

"Not  very  far,"  he  replied,  cautiously.  "I 
can  get  to  the  window  with  my  crutches 
pretty  well." 

And  the  next  moment  he  felt  ashamed  of 
his  caution  when  the  airman  laughed  frankly. 

"I  need  a  guide  to  some  petrol,"  he  said. 
"Evidently  you  can't  go  with  me." 

"Haven't  you  enough  petrol  to  take  you  to 
Lorient?" 

"How  far  is  Lorient!" 

Wayland  told  him. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  flight-lieutenant; 
"I'll  have  to  try  to  get  somewhere.  I  sup 
pose  it  is  useless  for  me  to  ask,"  he  added, 
"but  have  you,  by  any  chance,  a  bit  of  can 
vas — an  old  sail  or  hammock? — I  don't  need 
much.  That's  what  I  came  for — and  some 
shellac  and  wire,  and  a  screwdriver  of  sorts? 
We  need  patching  as  well  as  petrol;  and 
we're  a  little  short  of  supplies." 

Wayland's  steady  gaze  never  left  him,  but 
his  smile  was  friendly. 

"We're  in  a  tearing  hurry,  too,"  added  the 

82 


THE   AIRMAN 


flight-lieutenant,   looking   out   of   the   window. 

Wayland  smiled.  "Of  course  there's  no 
petrol  here.  There's  nothing  here.  I  don't 
suppose  you  could  have  landed  in  a  more 
deserted  region  if  you  had  tried.  There's  a 
chateau  in  the  Lais  woods,  but  it's  closed; 
owner  and  servants  are  at  the  war  and  the 
family  in  Paris." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Everybody 
has  cleared  out;  the  war  has  stripped  the 
country;  and  there  never  were  any  people 
on  these  moors,  excepting  shooting  parties 
and,  in  the  summer,  a  stray  artist  or  two 
from  Quimperle." 

The  lieutenant  looked  at  him.  "You  say 
there  is  nobody  here — between  here  and 
Lorient?  No— troops  f 

"There's  nothing  to  guard.  The  coast  is 
one  vast  shoal.  Ships  pass  hull  down.  Once  a 
day  a  coast  guard  patrols  along  the  cliffs " 

"When?" 

"He  has  passed,  unfortunately.  Otherwise 
he  might  signal  by  relay  to  Lorient  and  have 
them  send  you  out  some  petrol.  By  the  way 
— are  you  hungry?" 

83 


BARBARIANS 


The  flight-lieutenant  showed  all  his  firm, 
white  teeth  under  a  yellow  mustache,  which 
curled  somewhat  upward.  He  laughed  in  a 
carefree  way,  as  though  something  had  sud 
denly  eased  his  mind  of  perplexity — perhaps 
the  certainty  that  there  was  no  possible 
chance  for  petrol.  Certainty  is  said  to  be 
more  endurable  than  suspense. 

"I'll  stop  for  a  bite — if  you  don't  mind- 
while  my  pilot  tinkers  out  yonder,"  he  said. 
"We're  not  in  such  a  bad  way.  It  might 
easily  have  been  worse.  Do  you  think  you 
could  find  us  a  bit  of  sail,  or  something,  to 
use  for  patching?" 

Wayland  indicated  an  old  high-backed  chair 
of  oak,  quaintly  embellished  with  ancient 
leather  in  faded  blue  and  gold.  It  had  been 
a  royal  chair  in  its  day,  or  the  Fleur-de-Lys 
lied. 

The  flight-lieutenant  seated  himself  with  a 
rather  stiff  bow. 

"If  you  need  canvas" — Wayland  hesitated 
—then,  gravely:  "There  are,  in  my  room,  a 
number  of  artists'  toiles — old  chassis  with 
the  blank  canvas  still  untouched." 

84 


THE   AIRMAN 


"Exactly  what  we  need!"  exclaimed  the 
other.  "What  luck,  now,  to  meet  a  painter 
in  such  a  place  as  this!" 

"They  belonged  to  my  father,"  explained 
Wayland.  "We — Marie- Josephine  and  I— 
have  always  kept  my  father's  old  canvases 
and  colours — everything  of  his.  .  .  .  I'll  be 
glad  to  give  them  to  a  British  soldier.  .  .  . 
They're  about  all  I  have  that  was  his — except 
that  oak  chair  you  sit  on." 

He  rose  on  his  crutches,  spoke  briefly  in 
Breton  to  Marie-Josephine,  then  limped 
slowly  away  to  his  room. 

When  he  returned  with  half  a  dozen  blank 
canvases  the  flight-lieutenant,  at  table,  was 
eating  pork  and  black  bread  and  drinking 
Breton  cider. 

Wayland  seated  himself,  laid  both  crutches 
across  his  knees,  picked  up  one  of  the  chassis, 
and  began  to  rip  from  it  the  dusty  canvas. 
It  was  like  tearing  muscles  from  his  own 
bones.  But  he  smiled  and  chatted  on,  casu 
ally,  with  the  air-officer,  who  ate  as  though 
half  starved. 

"I    suppose,"    said   Wayland,    "you'll    start 

7  85 


back  across  the  Channel  as  soon  as  you  se 
cure  petrol  enough?" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"You  could  go  by  way  of  Quimper  or  by 
Lorient.  There's  petrol  to  be  had  at  both 
places  for  military  purposes" — leisurely  con 
tinuing  to  rip  the  big  squares  of  canvas  from 
the  frames. 

The  airman,  still  eating,  watched  him 
askance  at  intervals. 

"I've  brought  what's  left  of  the  shellac; 
it  isn't  much  use,  I  fear.  But  here  is  his 
hammer  and  canvas  stretcher,  and  the  re 
mainder  of  the  nails  he  used  for  stretching 
his  canvases,"  said  Wayland,  with  an  effort 
to  speak  carelessly. 

"Many  thanks.  You  also  are  a  painter,  I 
take  it." 

Wayland  laid  one  hand  on  the  sleeve  of 
his  uniform  and  laughed. 

"I  ivas  a  writer.  But  there  are  only  sol 
diers  in  the  world  now." 

"Quite  so.  ...  This  is  an  odd  place  for  an 
American  to  live  in." 

"My  father  bought  it  years  ago.  He  was 
86 


a  painter  of  peasant  life."  He  added,  lower 
ing  his  voice,  although  Marie-Josephine  un 
derstood  no  English:  "This  old  peasant 
woman  was  his  model  many  years  ago.  She 
also  kept  house  for  him.  He  lived  here;  I 
was  born  here." 

"Beally?" 

"Yes,  but  my  father  desired  that  I  grow 
up  a  good  Yankee.  I  was  at  school  in  Amer 
ica  when  he — died." 

The  airman  continued  to  eat  very  busily. 

"He  died — out  there" — Wayland  looked 
through  the  window,  musingly.  "There  was 
an  Iceland  schooner  wrecked  off  the  Isle  des 
Chouans.  And  no  life-saving  crew  short  of 
Ylva  Light.  So  my  father  went  out  in  his 
little  American  catboat,  all  alone.  .  .  .  Marie- 
Josephine  saw  his  sail  off  Eryx  Eocks  .  .  . 
for  a  few  moments  .  .  .  and  saw  it  no  more." 

The  airman,  still  devouring  his  bread  and 
meat,  nodded  in  silence. 

"That  is  how  it  happened,"  said  Wayland. 
"The  French  authorities  notified  me.  There 
was  a  little  money  and  this  hut,  and — Marie- 
Josephine.  So  I  came  here;  and  I  write 

87 


BARBARIANS 


children's  stories — that  sort  of  thing.  .  .  . 
It  goes  well  enough.  I  sell  a  few  to  Ameri 
can  publishers.  Otherwise  I  shoot  and  fish 
and  read  .  .  .  when  war  does  not  preoccupy 
me.  .  .  ." 

He  smiled,  experiencing  the  vague  relief  of 
talking  to  somebody  in  his  native  tongue. 
Quesnel  Moors  were  sometimes  very  lonely. 

"It's  been  a  long  convalescence,"  he  con 
tinued,  smilingly.  "One  of  their  'coal-boxes' 
did  this" — touching  his  leg.  "When  I  was 
able  to  move  I  went  to  America.  But  the  sea 
off  the  Eryx  called  me  back;  and  the  authori 
ties  permitted  me  to  come  down  here.  I'm 
getting  well  very  fast  now." 

He  had  stripped  every  chassis  of  its  can 
vas,  and  had  made  a  roll  of  the  material. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  be  of  any  use  to  you," 
he  said  pleasantly,  laying  the  roll  on  the 
table. 

Marie-Josephine,  on  her  low  chair  by  the 
hearth,  sat  listening  to  every  word  as  though 
she  had  understood.  The  expression  in  her 
faded  eyes  varied  constantly;  solicitude,  per 
plexity,  vague  uneasiness,  a  recurrent  glim- 

88 


THE   AIRMAN 


mer  of  suspicion  were  succeeded  always  by 
wistful  tenderness  when  her  gaze  returned  to 
Wayland  and  rested  on  his  youthful  face  and 
figure  with  a  pride  forever  new. 

Once  she  spoke  in  mixed  French  and 
Breton : 

"Is  the  stranger  English,  Monsieur  Jacques, 
mon  cheri?" 

"I  do  not  doubt  it,  Marie- Josephine.  Do 
you?" 

"Why  dost  thou  believe  him  to  be  Eng 
lish?" 

"He  has  the  tricks  of  speech.  Also  his 
accent  is  of  an  English  university.  There 
is  no  mistaking  it." 

"Are  not  young  Huns  sometimes  instructed 
in  the  universities  of  England?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  But " 

"Gar  a  nous,  mon  p'tit,  Jacques.  In  Finis- 
tere  a  stranger  is  a  suspect.  Since  earliest 
times  they  have  done  us  harm  in  Finistere. 
The  strangers — God  knows  what  centuries  of 
evil  they  have  wrought." 

"No  fear,"  he  said,  reassuringly,  and  turned 
again  to  the  airman,  who  had  now  satisfied 

89 


BARBARIANS 


his  hunger  and  had  already  risen  to  gather 
up  the  roll  of  canvas,  the  hammer,  nails,  and 
shellac. 

"Thanks  awfully,  old  chap!"  he  said  cor 
dially.  "I'll  take  these  articles,  if  I  may. 
It's  very  good  of  you.  .  .  .  I'm  in  a  tearing 
hurry " 

"Won't  your  pilot  come  over  and  eat  a 
bit?" 

"I'll  take  him  this  bread  and  meat,  if  I 
may.  Many  thanks."  He  held  out  his  heav 
ily  gloved  hand  with  a  friendly  smile,  nodded 
to  Marie-Josephine.  And  as  he  hurriedly 
turned  to  go,  the  ancient  carving  on  the  high- 
backed  chair  caught  him  between  the  buttons 
of  his  leather  coat,  tearing  it  wide  open  over 
the  breast.  And  Wayland  saw  the  ribbon 
of  the  Iron  Cross  there  fastened  to  a  sea- 
grey  tunic. 

There  was  a  second's  frightful  silence. 

"What's  that  you  wear?"  said  Wayland 
hoarsely.  "Stop!  Stand  where  you— 

"Halt!  Don't  touch  that  shotgun!"  cried 
the  airman  sharply.  But  Wayland  already 
had  it  in  his  hands,  and  the  airman  fired  twice 

90 


lie  airman  fired  twice 
again, 


.  .  steadied  the  automatic  to  shoot 
but  held  his  fire. 


THE   AIRMAN 


at  him  where  he  stood — steadied  the  auto 
matic  to  shoot  again,  but  held  his  fire,  seeing 
it  would  not  be  necessary.  Besides,  he  did 
not  care  to  shoot  the  old  woman  unless  mili 
tary  precaution  made  it  advisable;  and  she 
was  on  her  knees,  her  withered  arms  upflung, 
shielding  the  prostrate  body  with  her  own. 

"You  Yankee  fool,"  he  snapped  out 
harshly — "it  is  your  own  fault,  not  mine! 
.  .  .  Like  the  rest  of  your  imbecile  nation 
you  poke  your  nose  where  it  has  no  business ! 
And  I — "  He  ceased  speaking,  realizing  that 
his  words  remained  unheard. 

After  a  moment  he  backed  toward  the 
door,  carrying  the  canvas  roll  under  his  left 
arm  and  keeping  his  eye  carefully  on  the 
prostrate  man.  Also,  one  can  never  trust 
the  French! — he  was  quite  ready  for  that 
old  woman  there  on  the  floor  who  was  hold 
ing  the  dead  boy's  head  to  her  breast,  mut 
tering:  "My  darling!  My  child! — Oh,  little 
son  of  Marie- Josephine ! — I  told  thee — I 
warned  thee  of  the  stranger  in  Finistere!  .  .  . 
Marie  —  holy  —  intercede!  .  .  .  All  —  all  are 
born  to  grief  in  Finistere!  .  .  ." 

91 


CHAPTER   VHI 

EN    OBSERVATION 

The  incredible  rumour  that  German  air 
men  were  in  Brittany  first  came  from  Plou- 
harnel  in  Morbihan;  then  from  Bannalec, 
where  an  old  Icelander  had  notified  the 
Brigadier  of  the  local  Gendarmerie.  But  the 
Icelander  was  very  drunk.  A  thimble  of 
cognac  did  it. 

Again  came  an  unconfirmed  report  that  a 
shepherd  lad  while  alternately  playing  on  his 
Biniou  and  fishing  for  eels  at  the  confluence 
of  the  Elle  and  Isole,  had  seen  a  werewolf 
in  Lai's  Woods.  The  Loup  Garou  walked  on 
two  legs  and  had  assumed  the  shape  of  a 
man  with  no  features  except  two  enormous 
eyes. 

The  following  week  a  coast  guard  near 
Flouranges  telephoned  to  the  Aulnes  Light- 

92 


EN   OBSERVATION 


house;  the  keeper  of  the  light  telephoned  to 
Lorient  the  story  of  Wayland,  and  was  in 
structed  to  extinguish  the  great  flash  again 
and  to  keep  watch  from  the  lantern  until  an 
investigation  could  be  made. 

That  an  enemy  airman  had  done  murder 
in  Finistere  was  now  certain;  but  that  a 
Boche  submarine  had  come  into  the  Bay  of 
Biscay  seemed  very  improbable,  considering 
the  measures  which  had  been  taken  in  the 
Channel,  at  Trieste,  and  at  Gibraltar. 

That  a  fleet  of  many  sea-planes  was  soar 
ing  somewhere  between  the  Isle  des  Chou- 
ettes  and  Finistere,  and  landing  men,  seemed 
to  be  practically  an  impossibility.  Yet,  there 
were  the  rumours.  And  murder  had  been 
done. 

But  an  enemy  undersea  boat  required  a 
base.  Had  such  a  base  been  established 
somewhere  along  those  lonely  and  desolate 
wastes  of  bog  and  rock  and  moor  and  gorse- 
set  cliff  haunted  only  by  curlew  and  wild 
duck,  and  bounded  inland  by  a  silent  barrier 
of  forest  through  which  the  wild  boar  roamed 
and  rooted  unmolested? 

93 


BARBARIANS 


And  where  in  Finistere  was  an  enemy  sea 
plane  to  come  from,  when,  save  for  the  few 
remaining  submarines  still  skulking  near 
British  waters,  the  enemy's  flag  had  vanished 
from  the  seas? 

Nevertheless  the  coast  lights  at  Aulnes  and 
on  the  Isle  des  Chouettes  went  out;  the  Com 
mandant  at  Lorient  and  the  General  in  com 
mand  of  the  British  expeditionary  troops  in 
the  harbour  consulted;  and  the  fleet  of  troop- 
laden  transports  did  not  sail  as  scheduled, 
but  a  swarm  of  French  and  British  cruisers, 
trawlers,  mine-sweepers,  destroyers,  and  sub 
marines  put  out  from  the  great  warport  to 
comb  the  boisterous  seas  of  Biscay  for  any 
possible  aerial  or  amphibious  Hun  who  might 
venture  to  haunt  the  coasts. 

Inland,  too,  officers  were  sent  hither  and 
thither  to  investigate  various  rumours  and 
doubtful  reports  at  their  several  sources. 

And  it  happened  in  that  way  that  Captain 
Neeland  of  the  6th  Battalion,  Athabasca 
Regiment,  Canadian  Overseas  Contingent, 
found  himself  in  the  Forest  of  Aulnes,  with 
instructions  to  stay  there  long  enough  to 

94 


EN   OBSERVATION 


verify  or  discredit  a  disturbing  report  which, 
had  just  arrived  by  mail. 

The  report  was  so  strange  and  the  investi 
gation  required  so  much  secrecy  and  caution 
that  Captain  Neeland  changed  his  uniform 
for  knickerbockers  and  shooting  coat,  bor 
rowed  a  fowling  piece  and  a  sack  of  cart 
ridges  loaded  with  No.  4  shot,  tucked  his  gun 
under  his  arm,  and  sauntered  out  of  Lorient 
town  before  dawn,  like  any  other  duck-hunt 
ing  enthusiast. 

Several  reasons  influenced  his  superiors  in 
sending  Neeland  to  investigate  this  latest  and 
oddest  report:  for  one  thing,  although  he  had 
become  temporarily  a  Canadian  for  military 
purposes  only,  in  reality  he  was  an  American 
artist  who,  like  scores  and  scores  of  his 
artistic  fellow  Yankees,  had  spent  many 
years  industriously  painting  those  sentimental 
Breton  scenes  which  obsess  our  painters,  if 
not  their  critics.  He  was  a  very  bad  painter, 
but  he  did  not  know  it;  he  had  already  be 
come  a  promising  soldier,  but  he  did  not 
realize  that  either.  As  a  sportsman,  however, 
Neeland  was  rather  pleased  with  himself. 

95 


BARBARIANS 


He  was  sent  because  he  knew  the  sombre 
and  lovely  land  of  Finistere  pretty  well,  be 
cause  he  was  more  or  less  of  a  naturalist  and 
a  sportsman,  and  because  the  plan  which  he 
had  immediately  proposed  appeared  to  be 
reasonable  as  well  as  original. 

It  had  been  a  stiff  walk  across  country 
— fifteen  miles,  as  against  thirty  odd  around 
by  road — but  neither  cart  nor  motor  was  to 
enter  into  the  affair.  If  anybody  should 
watch  him,  he  was  only  a  duckhunter  afield, 
crossing  the  marshes,  skirting  etangs,  a  soli 
tary  figure  in  the  waste,  easily  reconcilable 
with  his  wide  and  melancholy  surroundings. 


I/OMBRE 


Anlnes  Woods  were  brown  and  still  under 
their  unshed  canopy  of  October  leaves. 
Against  a  grey,  transparent  sky  the  oaks 
and  beeches  towered,  unstirred  by  any  wind; 
in  the  subdued  light  among  the  trees,  ferns, 
startlingly  green,  spread  delicate  plumed 
fronds;  there  was  no  sound  except  the  soft 
crash  of  his  own  footsteps  through  shrivel 
ing  patches  of  brake;  no  movement  save 
when  a  yellow  leaf  fluttered  down  from  above 
or  one  of  those  little  silvery  grey  moths  took 
wing  and  fluttered  aimlessly  along  the  forest 
aisle,  only  to  alight  upon  some  lichen-spotted 
tree  and  cling  there,  slowly  waving  its  deli 
cate,  translucent  wings. 

It  was  a  very  ancient  wood,  the  Forest  of 
Aulnes,  and  the  old  trees  were  long  past 

97 


BARBARIANS 


timber  value.  Even  those  gleaners  of  dead 
wood  and  fallen  branches  seemed  to  have 
passed  a  different  way,  for  the  forest  floor 
was  littered  with  material  that  seldom  goes 
to  waste  in  Europe,  and  which  broke  under 
foot  with  a  dull,  thick  sound,  filling  the  nos 
trils  with  the  acrid  odour  of  decay. 

Narrow  paths  full  of  dead  leaves  ran  here 
and  there  through  the  woods,  but  he  took 
none  of  these,  keeping  straight  on  toward  the 
northwest  until  a  high,  moss-grown  wall 
checked  his  progress. 

It  ran  west  through  the  silent  forest;  damp 
green  mould  and  lichens  stained  it;  patches 
of  grey  stucco  had  peeled  from  it,  revealing 
underneath  the  roughly  dressed  stones.  He 
followed  the  wall. 

Now  and  then,  far  in  the  forest,  and  indis 
tinctly,  he  heard  faint  sounds — perhaps  the 
cautious  tread  of  roebuck,  or  rabbits  in  the 
bracken,  or  the  patter  of  a  stoat  over  dry 
leaves;  perhaps  the  sullen  retirement  of  some 
wild  boar,  winding  man  in  the  depths  of  his 
own  domain,  and  sulkily  conceding  him  right 
of  way. 


L'OMBRE 


After  a  while  there  came  a  break  in  the 
wall  where  four  great  posts  of  stone  stood, 
and  where  there  should  have  been  gates. 

But  only  the  ancient  and  rusting  hinges 
remained  of  either  gate  or  wicket. 

He  looked  up  at  the  carved  escutcheons; 
the  moss  of  many  centuries  had  softened  and 
smothered  the  sculptured  device,  so  that  its 
form  had  become  indistinguishable. 

Inside  stood  a  stone  lodge.  Tiles  had 
fallen  from  the  ancient  roof;  leaded  panes 
were  broken;  nobody  came  to  the  closed  and 
discoloured  door  of  massive  oak. 

The  avenue,  which  was  merely  an  unkempt, 
overgrown  ride,  curved  away  between  the 
great  gateposts  into  the  woods;  and,  as  he 
entered  it,  three  deer  left  stealthily,  making 
no  sound  in  the  forest. 

Nobody  was  to  be  seen,  neither  gatekeeper 
nor  woodchopper  nor  charcoal  burner.  Noth 
ing  moved  amid  the  trees  except  a  tiny,  silent 
bird  belated  in  his  autumn  migration. 

The  ride  curved  to  the  east;  and  abruptly 
he  came  into  view  of  the  house — a  low, 

99 


BARBARIANS 


weather-ravaged  structure  in  the  grassy 
glade,  ringed  by  a  square,  wet  moat. 

There  was  no  terrace;  the  ride  crossed  a 
permanent  bridge  of  stone,  passed  the  carved 
and  massive  entrance,  crossed  a  second 
crumbling  causeway,  and  continued  on  into 
the  forest. 

An  old  Breton  woman,  who  was  drawing 
a  jug  of  water  from  the  moat,  turned  and 
looked  at  Neeland,  and  then  went  silently 
into  the  house. 

A  moment  later  a  younger  woman  appeared 
on  the  doorstep  and  stood  watching  his  ap 
proach. 

As  he  crossed  the  bridge  he  took  off  his 
cap. 

"Madame,  the  Countess  of  Aulnes?"  he  in 
quired.  "Would  you  be  kind  enough  to  say 
to  her  that  I  arrive  from  Lorient  at  her 
request?" 

"I  am  the  Countess  of  Aulnes,"  she  said 
in  flawless  English. 

He  bowed  again.  "I  am  Captain  Neeland 
of  the  British  Expeditionary  force." 

"May  I  see  your  credentials,  Captain  Nee- 
100 


L'OMBRE 


land?"  She  had  descended  the  single  step  of 
crumbling  stone. 

"Pardon,  Countess;  may  I  first  be  certain 
concerning  your  identity!" 

There  was  a  silence.  To  Neeland  she 
seemed  very  young  in  her  black  gown.  Per 
haps  it  was  that  sombre  setting  and  her  dark 
eyes  and  hair  which  made  her  skin  seem  so 
white. 

"What  proof  of  my  identity  do  you  ex 
pect  ?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Only  one  word,  Madame." 

She  moved  a  step  nearer,  bent  a  trifle 
toward  him.  "L'Ombre,"  she  whispered. 

From  his  pocket  he  drew  his  credentials 
and  offered  them.  Among  them  was  her  own 
letter  to  the  authorities  at  Lorient. 

After  she  had  examined  them  she  handed 
them  back  to  him. 

"Will  you  come  in,  Captain  Neeland — or, 
perhaps  we  had  better  seat  ourselves  on  the 
bridge — in  order  to  lose  no  time — because  I 
wish  you  to  see  for  yourself " 

She  lifted  her  dark  eyes;  a  tint  of  embar 
rassment  came  into  her  cheeks:  "It  may  seem 
8  101 


absurd  to  you;  it  seems  so  to  me,  at  times— 
what  I  am  going  to  say  to  you — concerning 
L'Ombre " 

She  had  turned;  he  followed;  and  at  her 
grave  gesture  of  invitation,  he  seated  him 
self  beside  her  on  the  coping  of  mossy  stone 
which  ran  like  a  bench  under  the  parapet  of 
the  little  bridge. 

"Captain  Neeland,"  she  said,  "I  am  a  Bre- 
tonne,  but,  until  recently,  I  did  not  suppose 
myself  to  be  superstitious.  ...  I  really  am 
not — unless — except  for  this  one  matter  of 
L'Ombre.  .  .  .  My  English  governess  drove 
superstition  out  of  my  head.  .  .  .  Still,  living 
in  Finistere — here  in  this  house" — she  flushed 
again — "I  shall  have  to  leave  it  to  you.  .  .  . 
I  dread  ridicule;  but  I  am  sure  you  are  too 
courteous —  ...  It  required  some  courage 
for  me  to  write  to  Lorient.  But,  if  it  might 
possibly  help  my  country — to  risk  ridicule— 
of  course  I  do  not  hesitate." 

She  looked  uncertainly  at  the  young  man's 
pleasant,  serious  face,  and,  as  though  reas 
sured  : 

"I  shall  have  to  tell  you  a  little  about 
102 


myself  first — so  that  you  may  understand 
better." 

"Please,"  he  said  gravely. 

"Then — my  father  and  my  only  brother 
died  a  year  ago,  in  battle.  ...  It  happened 
in  the  Argonne.  ...  I  am  alone.  "We  had 
maintained  only  two  men  servants  here. 
They  went  with  their  classes.  One  old 
woman  remains."  She  looked  up  with  a 
forced  smile.  "I  need  not  explain  to  you 
that  our  circumstances  are  much  straitened. 
You  have  only  to  look  about  you  to  see  that 
.  .  .  our  poverty  is  not  recent;  it  always  has 
been  so  within  my  memory — only  growing  a 
little  worse  every  year.  I  believe  our  mis 
fortunes  began  during  the  Vendee.  .  .  .  But 
that  is  of  no  interest  .  .  .  except  that — 
through  coincidence,  of  course — every  time  a 
new  misfortune  comes  upon  our  family,  mis 
fortune  also  falls  on  France."  He  nodded, 
still  mystified,  but  interested. 

"Did  you  happen  to  notice  the  device 
carved  on  the  gatepost?"  she  asked. 

"I  thought  it  resembled  a  fish " 

103 


BARBARIANS 


"Do  you  understand  French,  Captain  Nee- 
land?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  know  that  L'Ombre  means  'the 
shadow'." 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  know,  also,  that  there  is  a  fish 
called  'L'Ombre'  ?" 

"No;  I  did  not  know  that." 

"There  is.  It  looks  like  a  shadow  in  the 
water.  L'Ombre  does  not  belong  here  in  Brit 
tany.  It  is  a  northern  fish  of  high  altitudes 
where  waters  are  icy  and  rapid  and  always 
tinctured  with  melted  snow  .  .  .  would  you  ac 
cord  me  a  little  more  patience,  Monsieur,  if 
I  seem  to  be  garrulous  concerning  my  own 
family?  It  is  merely  because  I  want  you  to 
understand  everything  .  .  .  everything.  .  .  ." 

"I  am  interested,"  lie  assured  her  pleas 
antly. 

"Then — it  is  a  legend — perhaps  a  supersti 
tion  in  our  family — that  any  misfortune  to 
us — and  to  France — is  always  preceded  by  two 
invariable  omens.  One  of  these  dreaded  signs 
is  the  abrupt  appearance  of  L'Ombre  in  the 

104 


L'OMBRE 


waters  of  our  moat — "  She  turned  her  head 
slowly  and  looked  down  over  the  parapet  of 
the  bridge. — "The  other  omen,"  she  contin 
ued  quietly,  "is  that  the  clocks  in  our  house 
suddenly  go  wrong — all  striking  the  same 
hour,  no  matter  where  the  hands  point,  no 
matter  what  time  it  really  is.  ...  These 
things  have  always  happened  in  our  family, 
they  say.  I,  myself,  have  never  before  wit 
nessed  them.  But  during  the  Vendee  the 
clocks  persisted  in  striking  four  times  every 
hour.  The  Comte  d'Aulnes  mounted  the  scaf 
fold  at  that  hour;  the  Vicomte  died  under 
Charette  at  Fontenay  at  that  hour.  .  .  .  L'Om- 
bre  appeared  in  the  waters  of  the  moat  at 
four  o'clock  one  afternoon.  And  then  the 
clocks  went  wrong. 

"And  all  this  happened  again,  they  say,  in 
1870.  L'Ombre  appeared  in  the  moat.  Every 
clock  continued  to  strike  six,  day  after  day 
for  a  whole  week,  until  the  battle  of  Sedan 
ended.  .  .  .  My  grandfather  died  there  with 
the  light  cavalry.  ...  I  am  so  afraid  I  am 
taxing  your  courtesy,  Captain  Neeland— 

"I   am    intensely   interested,"    he    repeated, 

105 


BARBARIANS 


watching  the  lovely,  sensitive  face  which  pride 
and  dread  of  misinterpretation  had  slightly 
flushed  again. 

"It  is  only  to  explain — perhaps  to  justify 
myself  for  writing — for  asking  that  an  officer 
be  sent  here  from  Lorient  for  a  few  days— 

"I   understand,   Countess." 

"Thank  you.  .  .  .  Had  it  been  merely  for 
myself — for  my  own  fears — my  personal  safety, 
I  should  not  have  written.  But  our  misfor 
tunes  seem  to  be  coincident  with  my  coun 
try's  mishaps.  ...  So  I  thought — if  they 
sent  an  officer  who  would  be  kind  enough  to 
understand " 

"I  understand  .  .  .  L'Ombre  has  appeared  in 
the  moat  again,  has  it  not?" 

"Yes,  it  came  a  week  ago,  suddenly,  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon." 

"And— the  clocks?" 

"For  a  week  they  have  been  all  wrong." 

"What  hour  do  they  strike?"  he  asked  curi 
ously. 

"Five." 

"No  matter  where  the  hands  point?" 

"No  matter.  I  have  tried  to  regulate  them. 
106 


L'OMBRE 


I  have  done  everything  I  could  do.  But  they 
continue  to  strike  five  every  hour  of  the  day 
and  night.  ...  I  have" — a  pale  smile  touched 
her  lips — "I  have  been  a  little  wakeful — per 
haps  a  trifle  uneasy — on  my  country's  account. 
You  understand.  .  .  ."  Pride  and  courage  had 
permitted  her  no  more  than  uneasiness,  it 
seemed.  Or  if  fear  had  threatened  her  there 
in  her  lonely  bedroom  through  the  still  watches 
of  the  night,  she  desired  him  to  understand 
that  her  solicitude  was  for  France,  not  for 
any  daughter  of  the  race  whose  name  she 
bore. 

The  simplicity  and  directness  of  her  amaz 
ing  narrative  had  held  his  respect  and  atten 
tion;  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  she  im 
plicitly  believed  what  she  told  him. 

But  that  was  one  thing;  and  the  wild  ex 
travagance  of  the  story  was  another.  There 
must  be,  of  course,  an  explanation  for  these 
phenomena  other  than  a  supernatural  one. 
Such  things  do  not  happen  except  in  medieval 
romance  and  tales  of  sorcery  and  doom.  And 
of  all  regions  on  earth  Brittany  swarms  with 
such  tales  and  superstitions.  He  knew  it. 

107 


BARBARIANS 


And  this  young  girl  was  Bretonne  after  all, 
however  educated,  however  accomplished,  how 
ever  honest  and  modern  and  sincere.  And 
he  began  to  comprehend  that  the  germs  of 
superstition  and  credulity  were  in  the  blood 
of  every  Breton  ever  born. 

But  he  merely  said  with  pleasant  deference : 
"I  can  very  easily  understand  your  uneasi 
ness  and  perplexity,  Madame.  It  is  a  time 
of  mental  stress,  of  great  nervous  tension  in 
France — of  heart-racking  suspense- 
She  lifted  her  dark  eyes.  "You  do  not  be 
lieve  me,  Monsieur." 

"I  believe  what  you  have  told  me.  But  I 
believe,  also,  that  there  is  a  natural  explana 
tion  concerning  these  matters." 

"I  tell  myself  so,  too.  .  .  .  But  I  brood  over 
them  in  vain;  I  can  find  no  explanation." 

"Of  course  there  must  be  one,"  he  insisted 
carelessly.  "Is  there  anything  in  the  world 
more  likely  to  go  queer  than  a  clock?" 

"There  are  five  clocks  in  the  house.  Why 
should  they  all  go  wrong  at  the  same  time  and 
in  the  same  manner?" 

He  smiled.    "I  don't  know,"  he  said  frankly. 

108 


L'OMBRE 


"I'll  investigate,  if  you  will  permit  me." 
"Of  course.  .  .  .  And,  about  L'Ombre.  What 
could  explain  its  presence  in  the  moat?  It  is 
a  creature  of  icy  waters;  it  is  extremely  lim 
ited  in  its  range.  My  father  has  often  said 
that,  except  L'Ombre  which  has  appeared  at 
long  intervals  in  our  moat,  L'Ombre  never  has 
been  seen  in  Brittany." 

"From  where  does   this  clear  water  come 
which  fills  the  moat?"  he  asked,  smiling. 
"From  living  springs  in  the  bottom." 
"No    doubt,"    he    said    cheerfully,    "a    long 
subterranean    vein    of    water    connects    these 
springs  with  some  distant  Alpine  river,  some 
where — in  the  Pyrenees,  perhaps — "    He  hesi 
tated,  for  the  explanation  seemed  as  far-fetched 
as  the  water. 

Perhaps  it  so  appeared  to  her,  for  ehe  re 
mained  politely  silent. 

Suddenly,  in  the  house,  a  clock  struck  five 
times.  They  both  sat  listening  intently.  From 
the  depths  of  the  ancient  mansion,  the  other 
clocks  repeated  the  strokes,  first  one,  then 
another,  then  two  sounding  their  clear  little 
belle  almost  in  unison.  All  struck  five.  He 

109 


drew  out  his   watch   and  looked  at   it.     The 
hour  was  three  in  the  afternoon. 

After  a  moment  her  attitude,  a  trifle  rigid, 
relaxed.  He  muttered  something  about  mak 
ing  an  examination  of  the  clocks,  adding  that 
to  adjust  and  regulate  them  would  be  a  simple 
matter. 

She  sat  very  still  beside  him  on  the  stone 
coping — her  dark  eyes  wandered  toward  the 
forest — wonderful  eyes,  dreamily  preoccupied 
— the  visionary  eyes  of  a  Bretonne,  full  of  the 
mystery  and  beauty  of  magic  things  unseen. 

Venturing,  at  last,  to  disturb  the  delicate  se 
quence  of  her  thoughts:  "Madame,"  he  said, 
"have  you  heard  any  rumours  concerning  ene 
my  airships — or,  undersea  boats?" 

The  tranquil  gaze  returned,  rested  on  him: 
"No,  but  something  has  been  happening  in 
the  Aulnes  Etang." 

"What?" 

"I  don't  know.  But  every  day  the  wild 
ducks  rise  from  it  in  fright — clouds  of  them— 
and  the  curlew  and  lapwings  fill  the  sky  with 
their  clamour." 

"A  poacher?" 

no 


L'OMBBE 


"I  know  of  none  remaining  here  in  Fini- 
stere." 

"Have  you  seen  anything  in  the  sky?  An 
eagle?" 

"Only  the  wild  fowl  whirling  above  the 
etang." 

"You  have  heard  nothing  —  from  the 
clouds?" 

"Only  the  vanneaux  complaining  and  the 
wild  curlew  answering." 

"Where  is  L'Ombre?"  he  asked,  vaguely 
troubled. 

She  rose;  he  followed  her  across  the  bridge 
and  along  the  mossy  border  of  the  moat. 
Presently  she  stood  still  and  pointed  down  in 
silence. 

For  a  while  he  saw  nothing  in  the  moat; 
then,  suspended  midway  between  surface  and 
bottom,  motionless  in  the  transparent  water,  a 
shadow,  hanging  there,  colourless,  translucent 
—a  phantom  vaguely  detached  from  the  limpid 
element  through  which  it  loomed. 

L'Ombre  lay  very  still  in  the  silvery-grey 
depths  where  the  glass  of  the  stream  reflected 
the  facade  of  that  ancient  house. 

in 


BARBARIANS 


Around  the  angle  of  the  moat  crept  a  rip 
ple;  a  rat  appeared,  swimming,  and,  seeing 
them,  dived.  L'Ombre  never  stirred. 

An  involuntary  shudder  passed  over  Nee- 
land,  and  he  looked  up  abruptly  with  the  in 
stinct  of  a  creature  suddenly  trapped — but  not 
yet  quite  realizing  it. 

In  the  grey  forest  walling  that  silent  place, 
in  the  monotonous  sky  overhead,  there  seemed 
something  indefinitely  menacing ;  a  menace,  too, 
in  the  intense  stillness;  and,  in  the  twisted, 
uplifted  limbs  of  every  giant  tree,  a  subtle 
and  suspended  threat. 

He  said  tritely  and  with  an  effort:  "For 
everything  there  are  natural  causes.  These 
may  always  be  discovered  with  ingenuity  and 
persistence.  .  .  .  Shall  we  examine  your  clocks, 
lladame  ?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Will  your  General  be  annoyed 
because  I  have  asked  that  an  officer  be  sent 
here?  Tell  me  truthfully,  are  you  annoyed?" 

"No,  indeed,"  he  insisted,  striving  to  smile 
away  the  inexplicable  sense  of  depression 
which  was  creeping  over  him. 

He  looked  down  again  at  the  grey  wraith 
112 


L'OMBRE 


in  the  water,  then,  as  they  turned  and  -walked 
slowly  back  across  the  bridge  together,  he 
said,  suddenly: 

"Something  is  wrong  somewhere  in  Fini- 
stere.  That  is  evident  to  me.  There  have 
been  too  many  rumours  from  too  many  sources. 
By  sea  and  land  they  come — rumours  of  things 
half  seen,  half  heard — glimpses  of  enemy  air 
craft,  sea-craft.  Yet  their  presence  would 
appear  to  be  an  impossibility  in  the  light  of 
the  military  intelligence  which  we  possess. 

"But  we  have  investigated  every  rumour; 
although  I,  personally,  know  of  no  report 
which  has  been  confirmed.  Nevertheless,  these 
rumours  persist;  they  come  thicker  and  faster 
day  by  day.  But  this — "  He  hesitated,  then 
smiled — "this  seems  rather  different " 

"I  know.  I  realize  that  I  have  invited  ridi 
cule— 

"Countess " 

"You  are  too  considerate  to  say  so.  ...  And 
perhaps  I  have  become  nervous — imagining 
things.  It  might  easily  be  so.  Perhaps  it 
is  the  sadness  of  the  past  year — the  strange 
ness  of  it,  and " 

113 


BARBARIANS 


She  sighed  unconsciously. 

"It  is  lonely  in  the  Wood  of  Aulnes,"  she 
said. 

"Indeed  it  must  be  very  lonely  here,"  he 
returned  in  a  low  voice. 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Aulnes  Wood  is — too  remote  for 
them  to  send  our  wounded  here  for  their  con 
valescence.  I  offered  Aulnes.  Then  I  of 
fered  myself,  saying  that  I  was  ready  to  go 
anywhere  if  I  might  be  of  use.  It  seems  there 
are  already  too  many  volunteers.  They  take 
only  the  trained  in  hospitals.  I  am  untrained, 
and  they  have  no  leisure  to  teach  .  .  .  nobody 
wanted  me." 

She  turned  and  gazed  dreamily  at  the  forest. 

"So  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  do,"  she  said, 
"except  to  remain  here  and  sew  for  the  hos 
pitals."  .  .  .  She  looked  out  thoughtfully  across 
the  fern-grown  carrefour:  "Therefore  I  sew 
all  day  by  the  latticed  window  there — all  day 
long,  day  after  day — and  when  one  is  young 
and  when  there  is  nobody — nothing  to  look 
at  except  the  curlew  flying — nothing  to  hear 
except  the  vanneaux,  and  the  clocks  striking 
the  hour " 

114 


L'OMBEE 


Her  voice  had  altered  subtly,  but  she  lifted 
her  proud  little  head  and  smiled,  and  her  tone 
grew  firm  again: 

"You  see,  Monsieur,  I  am  truly  becoming 
a  trifle  morbid.  It  is  entirely  physical;  my 
heart  is  quite  undaunted." 

"You  heart,  Madame,  is  but  a  part  of  the 
great,  undaunted  heart  of  France." 

"Yes  .  .  .  therefore  there  could  be  no  fear 
— no  doubt  of  God.  .  .  .  Affairs  go  well  with 
France,  Monsieur! — may  I  ask  without  mili 
tary  impropriety?" 

"France,  as  always,  faces  her  destiny,  Ma 
dame.  And  her  destiny  is  victory  and  light." 

"Surely  ...  I  knew ;  only  I  had  heard  noth 
ing  for  so  long.  .  .  .  Thank  you,  Monsieur." 

He  said  quietly:  "The  Light  shall  break. 
We  must  not  doubt  it,  we  English.  Nor  can 
you  doubt  the  ultimate  end  of  this  vast  and 
hellish  Darkness  which  has  been  let  loose  upon 
the  world  to  assail  it.  You  shall  live  to  see 
light,  Madame — and  I  also  shall  see  it — per 
haps " 

She  looked  up  at  the  young  man,  met  his 

115 


BARBARIANS 


eyes,  and  looked  elsewhere,  gravely.  A  slight 
flush  lingered  on  her  cheeks. 

On  the  doorstep  of  the  house  they  paused. 
"Is  it  possible,"  she  asked,  "that  an  enemy 
aeroplane  could  land  in  the  Aulnes  Etang? — 
L'Etang  aux  Vanneaux?" 

"In  the  Etang  I"  he  repeated,  a  little  startled. 
"How  large  is  it,  this  Etang  aux  Vanneaux?" 

"It  is  a  lake.  It  is  perhaps  a  mile  long  and 
three-quarters  of  a  mile  across.  My  old  serv 
ant,  Anne,  had  seen  the  werewolf  in  the 
reeds — like  a  man  without  a  face — and  only 
two  great  eyes — "  She  forced  a  pale  smile. 
"Of  course,  if  it  were  anything  she  saw,  it 
was  a  real  man.  .  .  .  And,  airmen  dress  that 
way.  ...  I  wondered " 

He  stood  looking  at  her  absently,  worrying 
his  short  mustache. 

"One  of  the  rumours  we  have  heard,"  he 
began,  "concerns  a  supposed  invasion  by  a  huge 
fleet  of  German  battle-planes  of  enormous  di 
mensions — a  new  biplane  type  which  is  steered 
from  the  bridge  like  an  ocean  steamer. 

"It  is  supposed  to  be  three  or  four  times 
as  large  as  their  usual  Albatross  type,  with 

116 


UOMBRE 


a  vast  cruising  radius,  immense  capacity  for 
lifting,  and  powerful  enough  to  carry  a  great 
weight  of  armour,  equipment,  munitions,  and 
a  very  large  crew. 

"And  the  most  disturbing  thing  about  it  is 
that  it  is  said  to  be  as  noiseless  as  a  high-class 
automobile." 

"Has  such  an  one  been  seen  in  Brittany?" 

"Such  a  machine  has  been  reported — many, 
many  times — as  though  not  one  but  hundreds 
were  in  Finistere.  And,  what  is  very  disquiet 
ing  to  us — a  report  has  arrived  from  a  distant 
and  totally  independent  source — from  Sweden 
— that  air-crafts  of  this  general  type  have  been 
secretly  built  in  Germany  by  the  hundreds." 

After  a  moment's  silence  she  stepped  into 
the  house ;  he  followed. 

The  great,  bare,  grey  rooms  were  in  keep 
ing  with  the  grey  exterior;  age  had  more  than 
softened  and  coordinated  the  ancient  furnish 
ings,  it  had  rendered  them  colourless,  without 
accent,  making  the  place  empty  and  monoto 
nous. 

Her  chair  and  workbasket  stood  by  a  lat- 
a  117 


BARBARIANS 


ticed  window;  she  seated  herself  and  took 
up  her  sewing,  watching  him  where  he  stood 
before  the  fireplace  fussing  over  a  little  mantel 
clock — a  gilt  and  ebony  affair  of  the  consulate, 
shaped  like  a  lyre,  the  pendulum  being  also  the 
clock  itself  and  containing  the  works,  bell  and 
dial. 

When  he  had  adjusted  it  to  his  satisfaction 
he  tested  it.  It  still  struck  five.  He  continued 
to  fuss  over  it  for  half  an  hour,  testing  it  at 
intervals,  but  it  always  struck  five  times,  and 
finally  he  gave  up  his  attempts  with  a  shrug 
of  annoyance. 

"1  can't  do  anything  with  it,"  he  admitted, 
smiling  cheerfully  across  the  room  at  her;  "is 
there  another  clock  on  this  floor?" 

She  directed  him;  he  went  into  an  adjoin 
ing  room  where,  on  the  mantel,  a  modern  enam 
elled  clock  was  ticking  busily.  But  after  a 
little  while  he  gave  up  his  tinkering;  he  could 
do  nothing  with  it;  the  bell  persistently  struck 
five.  He  returned  to  where  she  sat  sewing,  ad 
mitting  failure  with  a  perplexed  and  uneasy 
smile;  and  she  rose  and  accompanied  him 

118 


UOMBEE 


through  the  house,  where  he  tried,  in  turn, 
every  one  of  the  other  clocks. 

When,  at  length,  he  realized  that  he  could 
accomplish  nothing  by  altering  their  striking 
mechanism — that  every  clock  in  the  house  per 
sisted  in  striking  five  times  no  matter  where 
the  hands  were  pointing,  a  sudden,  odd,  and 
inward  rage  possessed  him  to  hurl  the  clocks 
at  the  wall  and  stamp  the  last  vestiges  of 
mechanism  out  of  them. 

As  they  returned  together  through  the 
hushed  and  dusky  house,  he  caught  glimpses 
of  faded  and  depressing  tapestries;  of  vast, 
tarnished  mirrors,  through  the  dim  depths  of 
which  their  passing  figures  moved  like  ghosts ; 
of  rusted  stands  of  arms,  and  armoured  lay 
figures  where  cobwebs  clotted  the  slitted  visors 
and  the  frail  tatters  of  ancient  faded  banners 
drooped. 

And  he  understood  why  any  woman  might 
believe  in  strange  inexplicable  things  here  in 
the  haunting  stillness  of  this  house  where  splen 
dour  had  turned  to  mould — where  form  had  be 
come  effaced  and  colour  dimmed;  where  only 

119 


BARBARIANS 


the  shadowy  film  of  texture  still  remained, 
and  where  even  that  was  slowly  yielding — 
under  the  attacks  of  Time's  relentless  mer 
cenaries,  moth  and  dust  and  rust. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   GHOULS 

They  dined  by  the  latticed  window;  two 
candles  lighted  them;  old  Anne  served  them 
—old  Anne  of  Faouette  in  her  wide  white 
coiffe  and  collarette,  her  velvet  bodice  and  her 
chaussons  broidered  with  the  rose. 

Always  she  talked  as  she  moved  about  with 
dish  and  salver — garrulous,  deaf,  and  aged, 
and  perhaps  flushed  with  the  gentle  afterglow 
of  that  second  infancy  which  comes  before 
the  night. 

"Ouidame!  It  is  I,  Anne  Le  Bihan,  who  tell 
you  this,  my  pretty  gentleman.  I  have  lived 
through  eighty  years  and  I  have  seen  life 
begin  and  end  in  the  Woods  of  Aulnes — alas! 
— in  the  Woods  and  the  House  of  Aulnes " 

"The  red  wine,  Anne,"  said  her  mistress, 
gently. 

121 


"Madame  the  Countess  is  served.  .  .  .  These 
grapes  grew  when  I  was  young,  Monsieur 
—and  the  world  was  young,  too,  mon  Capi- 
taine — lielas! — but  the  Woods  of  Aulnes  were 
old,  old  as  the  headland  yonder.  Only  the 
sea  is  older,  beau  jeune  homme — only  the  sea 
is  older — the  sea  which  always  was  and  will 
be." 

"Madame,"  he  said,  turning  toward  the 
young  girl  beside  him,  " — to  France! — I  have 
the  honour — "  She  touched  her  glass  to  his 
and  they  saluted  France  with  the  ancient 
wine  of  France — a  sip,  a  faint  smile,  and  si 
lence  through  which  their  eyes  still  lingered 
for  a  moment. 

"This  year  is  yielding  a  bitter  vintage,"  he 
said.  "Light  is  lacking.  But — but  there  will 
be  sun  enough  another  year." 

"Yes." 

"B'en  oui!  The  sun  must  shine  again," 
muttered  old  Anne,  "but  not  in  the  Woods 
of  Aulnes.  Non  pas.  There  is  no  sunlight 
in  the  Woods  of  Aulnes  where  all  is  dim  and 
still;  where  the  Blessed  walk  at  dawn  with 

122 


THE    GHOULS 


Our  Lady  of  Aulnes  in  shining  vestments 
all " 

"She  has  seen  thin  mists  rising  there," 
whispered  the  Countess  in  his  ear. 

"In  shining  robes  of  grace — oui-da! — the 
martyrs  and  the  acolytes  of  God.  It  is  I  who 
tell  you,  beau  jeune  homme — I,  Anne  of  Fa- 
ouette.  I  saw  them  pass  where,  on  my  two 
knees,  I  gathered  orange  mushrooms  by  the 
brook !  I  heard  them  singing  prettily  and  loud, 
hymns  of  our  blessed  Lady " 

"She  heard  a  throstle  singing  by  the  brook," 
whispered  the  chatelaine  of  Aulnes.  Her 
breath  was  delicately  fragrant  on  his  cheek. 

Against  the  grey  dusk  at  the  window  she 
looked  to  him  like  a  slim  spirit  returned  to 
haunt  the  halls  of  Aulnes — some  graceful 
shade  come  back  out  of  the  hazy  and  for 
gotten  years  of  gallantry  and  courts  and  bat 
tles — the  exquisite  apparation  of  that  golden 
time  before  the  Vendee  drowned  and  washed 
it  out  in  blood. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  came,"  she  said.  "I 
have  not  felt  so  calm,  so  confident,  in  months." 

Old  Anne  of  Faouette  laid  them  fresh  nap- 

123 


BARBARIANS 


kins  and  set  two  crystal  bowls  beside  them 
and  filled  the  bowls  with  fresh  water  from  the 
moat. 

"Ho  fois!"  she  said,  "love  and  the  heart 
may  change,  but  not  the  Woods  of  Aulnes; 
they  never  change — they  never  change.  .  .  . 
The  golden  people  of  Ker-Ys  come  out  of  the 
sea  to  walk  among  the  trees." 

The  Countess  whispered:  "She  has  seen 
the  sunbeams  slanting  through  the  trees." 

"Vrai,  c'est  moi,  Anne  Le  Bihan,  qui  vous 
dites  cela,  mon  Capitaine/  And,  in  the  Woods 
of  Aulnes  the  werewolf  prowls.  I  have  seen 
him,  gallant  gentleman.  He  walks  upright,  and, 
in  his  head,  he  has  only  eyss;  no  mouth,  no 
teeth,  no  nostrils,  and  no  hair — the  Loup- 
Garou ! — 0  Lady  of  Aulnes,  adored  and  blessed, 
protect  us  from  the  Loup-Barou!" 

The  Countess  said  again  to  him:  "I  have  not 
felt  so  confident,  so  content,  so  full  of  faith 
in  months " 

A  far  faint  clamour  came  to  their  ears ; 
high  in  the  fading  sky  above  the  forest 
vast  clouds  of  wild  fowl  rose  like  smoke,  whirl 
ing,  circling,  swinging  wide,  drifting  against 

124 


THE   GHOULS 


the  dying  light  of  day,  southward  toward  the 
sea. 

"There  is  something  wrong  there,"  he  said, 
under  his  breath. 

Minute  after  minute  they  watched  in  silence. 
The  last  misty  shred  of  wild  fowl  floated  sea 
ward  and  was  lost  against  the  clouds. 

"Is  there  a  path  to  the  Etang?"  he  asked 
quietly. 

"Yes.    I  will  go  with  you " 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"No.     Show  me  the  path." 

His  shotgun  stood  by  the  door;  he  took 
it  with  him  as  he  left  the  house  beside  her. 
In  the  moat,  close  by  the  bridge,  and  point 
ing  toward  the  house,  L'Ombre  lay  motionless. 
They  saw  it  as  they  passed,  but  did  not  speak  of 
it  to  each  other.  At  the  forest's  edge  he 
halted:  "Is  this  the  path!" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  May;  I  not  go?" 

"No — please." 

"Is  there  danger!" 

"No.  ...  I  don't  know  if  there  is  any  dan 
ger." 

125 


BARBARIANS 


"Will  you  be  cautious,  then!" 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  in  the  dim 
light.  Standing  so  for  a  little  while  they 
remained  silent.  Then  he  drew  a  deep,  quiet 
breath.  She  held  out  one  hand,  slowly;  half 
way  he  bent  and  touched  her  fingers  with 
his  lips;  released  them.  Her  arm  fell  list 
lessly  at  her  side. 

After  he  had  been  gone  a  long  while,  she 
turned  away,  moving  with  head  lowered.  At 
the  bridge  she  waited  for  him. 

A  red  moon  rose  low  in  the  east.  It  be 
came  golden  above  the  trees,  paler  higher, 
and  deathly  white  in  mid-heaven. 

It  was  long  after  midnight  when  she  went 
into  the  house  to  light  fresh  candles.  In  the 
intense  darkness  before  dawn  she  lighted  two 
more  and  set  them  in  an  upper  window  on 
the  chance  that  they  might  guide  him  back. 

At  five  in  the  morning  every  clock  struck 
five. 

She  was  not  asleep;  she  was  lying  on  a 
lounge  beside  the  burning  candles,  listening, 
when  the  door  below  burst  open  and  there 

126 


THE   GHOULS 


came  the  trampling  rush  of  feet,  the  sound 
of  blows,  a  fall 

A  loud  voice  cried : — "Because  you  are  armed 
and  not  in  uniform! — you  British  swine!" — 

And  the  pistol  shots  crashed  through  the 
house. 

On  the  stairs  she  swayed  for  an  instant, 
grasped  blindly  at  the  rail.  Through  the  float 
ing  smoke  below  the  dead  man  lay  there  by 
the  latticed  window — where  they  had  sat  to 
gether — he  and  she 

Spectres  were  flitting  to  and  fro — grey 
shapes  without  faces — things  with  eyes.  A 
loud  voice  dinned  in  her  ears,  beat  savagely 
upon  her  shrinking  brain: 

"You  there  on  the  stairs! — do  you  hear? 
What  are  those  candles?  Signals?" 

She  looked  down  at  the  dead  man. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

Through  the  crackling  racket  of  the  fusil 
lade,  down,  down  into  roaring  darkness  she 
fell. 

After  a  few  moments  her  slim  hand  moved, 
closed  over  the  dead  man's.  And  moved  no 
more. 

127 


BARBARIANS 


In  the  moat  L'Ombre  still  remained,  un- 
stirring;  old  Anne  lay  in  the  kitchen  dying; 
and  the  Wood  of  Aulnes  was  swarming  with 
ghastly  shapes  which  had  no  faces,  only 
eyes. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE   SEED   OF   DEATH 

It  was  Dr.  Vail  whose  identification  secured 
burial  for  Neeland,  not  in  the  American  ceme 
tery,  but  in  Aulnes  Wood. 

When  the  raid  into  Finistere  ended,  and 
the  unclean  birds  took  flight,  Vail,  at  Quimper, 
ordered  north  with  his  unit,  heard  of  the 
tragedy,  and  went  to  Aulnes.  And  so  Neeland 
was  properly  buried  beside  the  youthful  chate 
laine.  Which  was,  no  doubt,  what  his  severed 
soul  desired.  And  perhaps  hers  desired  it,  too. 

Vail  continued  on  to  Paris,  to  Flanders, 
got  gassed,  and  came  back  to  New  York. 

He  had  aged  ten  years  in  as  many  months. 

Gray,  the  younger  surgeon,  kept  glancing 
from  time  to  time  at  Vail's  pallid  face,  and 
the  latter  understood  the  professional  inter 
est  of  the  younger  man. 

129 


BARBARIANS 


"You  think  I  look  ill?"  he  asked,  finally. 

"You  don't  look  very  fit,  Doctor." 

"No.  .  .  .  I'm  going  West." 

"You  mean  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Why  do  you  think  that  you  are — going 
Westl" 

"There's  a  thing  over  there,  born  of  gas. 
It's  a  living  thing,  animal  or  vegetable.  I  don't 
know  which.  It's  only  recently  been  recog 
nized.  We  call  it  the  'Seed  of  Death.' " 

Gray  gazed  at  the  haggard  face  of  the  older 
man  in  silence. 

Vail  went  on,  slowly:  "It's  properly  named. 
It  is  always  fatal.  A  man  may  live  for  a 
few  months.  But,  once  gassed,  even  in  the 
slightest  degree,  if  that  germ  is  inhaled,  death 
is  certain." 

After  a  silence  Gray  began:  "Do  you  have 
any  apprehension — "  And  did  not  finish  the 
sentence. 

Vail  shrugged.  "It's  interesting,  isn't  it?" 
he  said  with  pleasant  impersonality. 

After  a  silence  Gray  said:  "Are  you  doing 
anything  about  it?" 

130 


THE    SEED    OF   DEATH 

"Oh,  yes.  It's  working  in  the  dark,  of  course. 
I'm  feeling  rottener  every  day." 

He  rested  his  handsome  head  on  one  thin 
hand: 

"I  don't  want  to  die,  Gray,  but  I  don't  know 
how  to  keep  alive.  It's  odd,  isn't  it?  I  don't 
wish  to  die.  It's  an  interesting  world.  I  want 
to  see  how  the  local  elections  turn  out  in  New 
York." 

"What!" 

"Certainly.  That  is  what  worries  me  more 
than  anything.  We  Allies  are  sure  to  win. 
I'm  not  worrying  about  that.  But  I'd  like  to 
live  to  see  Tammany  a  dead  cock  in  the  pit!" 

Gray  forced  a  laugh;  Vail  laughed  unfeign- 
edly,  and  then,  solemn  again,  said: 

"I'd  like  to  live  to  see  this  country  aspire 
to  something  really  noble." 

"After  all,"  said  Gray,  "there  is  really  noth 
ing  to  stifle  aspiration." 

It  was  not  only  because  Vail  had  been  gaz 
ing  upon  death  in  every  phase,  every  degree- 
on  brutal  destruction  wholesale  and  in  detail; 
but  also  he  had  been  standing  on  the  outer 
escarpment  of  Civilization  and  had  watched 

131 


BARBARIANS 


the  mounting  sea  of  barbarism  battering,  thun 
dering,  undermining,  gradually  engulfing  the 
world  itself  and  all  its  ancient  liberties. 

He  and  the  young  surgeon,  Gray,  who  was  to 
§ail  to  France  next  day  were  alone  together 
on  the  loggia  of  the  club;  dusk  mitigated  the 
infernal  heat  of  a  summer  day  in  town. 

On  the  avenue  below  motor  cars  moved 
north  and  south,  hansoms  crept  slowly  along 
the  curb,  and  on  the  hot  sidewalks  people 
passed  listlessly  under  the  electric  lights — the 
nine — and — seventy  sweating  tribes. 

For,  on  such  summer  nights,  under  the  red 
moon,  an  exodus  from  the  East  Side  peoples 
the  noble  avenue  with  dingy  spectres  who  shuf 
fle  along  the  gilded  grilles  and  still  facades  of 
stone,  up  and  down,  to  and  fro,  in  quest  of 
God  knows  what — of  air  perhaps,  perhaps  of 
happiness,  or  of  something  even  valuer.  But 
whatever  it  may  be  that  starts  them  into  pain 
ful  motion,  one  thing  seems  certain:  aspira 
tion  is  a  part  of  their  unrest. 

"There  is  liberty  here,"  replied  Dr.  Vail— 
"also  her  inevitable  shadow,  tyranny." 

"We  need  more  light;  that's  all,"  said  Gray. 
132 


THE   SEED    OF   DEATH 

"When  light  streams  in  from  every  angle  no 
shadow  is  possible." 

"The  millennium?  I  get  you.  ...  In  this 
country  the  main  thing  is  that  there  is  some 
light.  A  single  ray,  however  feeble,  and  even 
coming  from  one  fixed  angle  only,  means  aspi 
ration,  life.  .  .  ." 

He  lighted  a  cigar. 

"As  you  know,"  he  remarked,  "there  is  a 
flower  called  Aconitum.  It  is  also  known  by 
the  ominous  names  of  Monks-Hood  and  Hel 
met-Flower.  Direct  sunlight  kills  it.  It  flour 
ishes  only  in  shadow.  Like  the  Kaiser-Flower 
it  also  is  blue;  and,"  he  added,  "it  is  deadly 
poison.  ...  As  you  say,  the  necessary  thing 
in  this  world  is  light  from  every  angle." 

His  cigar  glimmered  dully  through  the  si 
lence.  Presently  he  went  on;  "Speaking  of 
tyranny,  I  think  it  may  be  classed  as  a  recog 
nized  and  tolerated  business  carried  on  suc 
cessfully  by  those  born  with  a  genius  for  it. 
It  flourishes  in  the  shade — like  the  Helmet- 
Flower.  .  .  .  But  the  sun  in  this  Western 
Hemisphere  of  ours  is  devilish  hot.  It's  grad 
ually  killing  off  our  local  tyrants — slowly,  al- 
10  133 


BARBARIANS 


most  imperceptiby  but  inexorably,  killing  'em 
off.  ...  Of  course,  there  are  plenty  still  alive 
— tyrants  of  every  degree  born  to  the  business 
of  tyranny  and  making  a  success  at  it." 

He  smoked  tranquilly  for  a  while,  then: 

"There  are  our  tyrants  of  industry,"  he  said ; 
"tyrants  of  politics,  tyrants  of  religion — great 
and  small  we  still  harbor  plenty  of  tyrants, 
all  scheming  to  keep  their  roots  from  shrivel 
ing  under  this  fierce  western  sun  of  ours— 

He  laughed  without  mirth,  turning  his  worn 
and  saddened  eyes  on  Gray: 

"Tyranny  is  a  business,"  he  repeated;  "also 
it  is  a  state  of  mind — a  delusion,  a  ruling 
passion — strong  even  in  death.  .  .  .  The  odd 
part  of  it  is  that  a  tyrant  never  knows  he's 
one.  .  .  .  He  invariably  mistakes  himself  for 
a  local  Moses.  I  can  tell  you  a  sort  of  story 
if  you  care  to  listen.  .  .  .  Or,  we  can  go  to 
some  cheerful  show  or  roof-garden " 

"Go  on  with  your  story,"  said  Gray. 


CHAPTER   XII 

FIFTY-FIFTY 

Vail  began: 

Tyranny  was  purely  a  matter  of  business 
with  this  little  moral  shrimp  about  whom  I'm 
going  to  tell  you.  I  was  standing  between 
a  communication  trench  and  a  crater  left  by 
a  mine  which  was  being  "consolidated,"  as  they 
have  it  in  these  days.  .  .  .  All  around  me  sol 
diers  of  the  third  line  swarmed  and  clambered 
over  the  debris,  digging,  hammering,  shift 
ing  planks  and  sandbags  from  south  to  north, 
lugging  new  timbers,  reels  of  barbed  wire,  lad 
ders,  cases  of  ammunition,  machine  guns,  trench 
mortars. 

The  din  of  the  guns  was  terrific;  overhead 
our  own  shells  passed  with  a  deafening,  clat 
tering  roar;  the  Huns  continued  to  shell  the 
town  in  front  of  us  where  our  first  and  second 

135 


BARBARIANS 


lines  were  still  fighting  in  the  streets  and 
liouses  while  the  third  line  were  reconstruct 
ing  a  few  yards  of  trenches  and  a  few  craters 
won. 

Stretchers  and  bearers  from  my  section  had 
not  yet  returned  from  the  emergency  dress 
ing  station;  the  crater  was  now  cleared  up 
except  of  enemy  dead,  whose  partly  buried 
arms  and  legs  still  stuck  out  here  and  there. 
A  company  of  the  Third  Foreign  Legion  had 
just  come  into  the  crater  and  had  taken  sta 
tion  at  the  loopholes  under  the  parapet  of 
sandbags. 

As  soon  as  the  telephone  wires  were 
stretched  as  far  as  our  crater  a  message  came 
for  me  to  remain  where  I  was  until  further 
orders.  I  had  just  received  this  message  and 
was  walking  along,  slowly,  behind  the  rank  of 
soldiers,  who  stood  leaning  against  the  para 
pet  with  their  rifles  thrust  through  the  loops, 
when  somebody  said  in  English — in  East  Side 
New  York  English  I  mean — "Ah,  there,  Doc !" 

A  soldier  had  turned  toward  me,  both  hands 
still  grasping  his  resting  rifle.  In  the  "horizon 
blue"  uniform  and  ugly,  iron,  shrapnel-proof 

136 


FIFTY-FIFTH 


helmet  strapped  to  his  bullet  head  I  failed 
to  recognize  him. 

"It's  me,  'Duck'  Werner,"  he  said,  as  I 
stood  hesitating.  .  .  .  You  know  who  he  is,  polit 
ical  leader  in  the  50th  Ward,  here.  I  was  as 
tounded. 

"What  do  you  know  about  it?"  he  added. 
"Me  in  a  tin  derby  potting  Fritzies !  And 
there's  Heinie,  too,  and  Pick-em-up  Joe — the 
whole  bunch  sewed  up  in  this  here  trench,  oh 
my  God!" 

I  went  over  to  him  and  stood  leaning  against 
the  parapet  beside  him. 

"Duck,"  I  said,  amazed,  "how  did  you  come 
to  enlist  in  the  Foreign  Legion?" 

"Aw,"  he  replied  with  infinite  disgust,  "I  got 
drunk." 

"Where?" 

"Me  and  Heinie  and  Joe  was  follerin'  the 
races  down  to  Boolong  when  this  here  war 
come  and  put  everything  on  the  blink.  Aw, 
hell,  sez  I,  come  on  back  to  Parus  an'  look 
'em  over  before  we  skiddoo  home — rneanin' 
the  dames  an'  all  like  that.  Say,  we  done 
what  I  said;  we  come  back  to  Parus,  an'  we 

137 


BARBARIANS 


got  in  wrong!  Listen,  Doc;  them  dames  had 
went  crazy  over  this  here  war  graft.  Veeve 
France,  sez  they.  An'  by  God !  we  veeved. 

"An'  one  of  'em  at  Maxeems  got  me  soused, 
and  others  they  fixed  up  Heinie  an'  Joe,  an' 
we  was  all  wavin'  little  American  flags  and 
yellin'  'To  hell  with  the  Hun!'  Then  there 
was  a  interval  for  which  I  can't  account  to 
nobody. 

"All  I  seem  to  remember  is  my  marchin' 
in  the  boolyvard  along  with  a  guy  in  baggy 
red  pants,  and  my  chewin'  the  rag  in  a  big, 
hot  room  full  o'  soldiers;  an'  Heinie  an'  Joe 
they  was  shoutin',  'Wow!  Lemme  at  'em. 
Veeve  la  France!'  Wha'  d'ye  know  about  me? 
Ain't  I  the  mark  from  home?" 

"You  didn't  realize  that  you  were  enlisting?" 

"Aw,  does  it  make  any  difference  to  these 
here  guys  what  you  reelize,  or  what  you  don't? 
I  ask  you,  Doc?" 

He  spat  disgustedly  upon  the  sand,  rolled 
his  quid  into  the  other  cheek,  wiped  his  thin 
lips  with  the  back  of  his  right  hand,  then  his 
fingers  mechanically  sought  the  trigger  guard 

138 


FIFTY-FIFTY 


again  and  he  cast  a  perfunctory  squint  up  at 
the  parapet. 

"Believe  me,"  he  said,  "a  guy  can  veeve  him 
self  into  any  kind  of  trouble  if  he  yells  loud 
enough.  I'm  getting  mine." 

"Well,  Duck,"  I  said,  "it's  a  good  game " 

"Aw,"  he  retorted  angrily,  "it  ain't  my  graft 
an*  you  know  it.  What  do  I  care  who  veeve  s 
over  here? — An'  the  50th  Ward  goin'  to  hell 
an'  all!" 

I  strove  to  readjust  my  mind  to  understand 
what  he  had  said.  I  was,  you  know,  that  year, 
the  Citizen's  Anti-Graft  leader  in  the  50th 
Ward.  ...  I  am,  still,  if  I  live;  and  if  I 
ever  can  get  anything  into  my  head  except  the 
stupendous  din  of  this  war  and  the  cataclysmic 
problems  depending  upon  its  outcome.  .  .  . 
Well,  it  was  odd  to  remember  that  petty  polit 
ical  conflict  as  I  stood  there  in  the  trenches 
under  the  gigantic  shadow  of  world-wide  dis 
aster — to  find  myself  there,  talking  with  this 
sallow,  wiry,  shifty  ward  leader — this  corrupt 
little  local  tyrant  whom  I  had  opposed  in  the 
50th  Ward — this  ex-lightweight  bruiser,  ex- 
gunman — this  dirty  little  political  procurer  who 

139 


BARBARIANS 


had  been  and  was  everything  brutal,  stealthy, 
and  corrupt. 

I  looked  at  him  curiously;  turned  and  glanced 
along  the  line  where,  presently,  I  recognized 
his  two  familiars,  Heinie  Bauni  and  Pick-em- 
up  Joe  Brady  with  whom  he  had  started  off  to 
"Parus"  on  a  month's  summer  junket,  and  with 
whom  he  had  stumbled  so  ludicrously  into  the 
riff-raff  ranks  of  the  3rd  Foreign  Legion. 
Doubtless  the  1st  and  2nd  Legions  couldn't 
stand  him  and  his  two  friends,  although  in  one 
company  there  were  many  Americans  serving. 

Thinking  of  these  things,  the  thunder  of  the 
cannonade  shaking  sand  from  the  parapet,  I  be 
came  conscious  that  the  rat  eyes  of  Duck  Wer 
ner  were  furtively  watching  me. 

"You  can  do  me  dirt,  now,  can't  you,  Doc?" 
he  said  with  a  leer. 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Aw,  as  if  I  had  to  tell  you.  I  got  some  sense 
left." 

Suddenly  his  sallow  visage  under  the  iron 
helmet  became  distorted  with  helpless  fury;  he 
fairly  snarled ;  his  thin  lips  writhed  as  he  spat 
out  the  suspicion  which  had  seized  him: 

140 


FIFTY-FIFTY 


"By  God,  Doc,  if  you  do  that! — if  you  leave 
me  here  caged  up  an'  go  home  an'  raise  hell 
in  the  50th — with  me  an'  Joe  here 

After  a  breathless  pause:  "Well,"  said  I, 
"what  will  you  do  about  it?" — for  he  was  look 
ing  murder  at  me. 

Neither  of  us  spoke  again  for  a  few  mo 
ments;  an  officer,  smoking  a  cigarette,  came  up 
between  Heinie  and  Pick-em-up  Joe,  adjusted 
a  periscope  and  set  his  eye  to  it.  Through 
the  sky  above  us  the  shells  raced  as  though 
hundreds  of  shaky  express  trains  were  rush 
ing  overhead  on  rickety  aerial  tracks,  deafen 
ing  the  world  with  their  outrageous  clatter. 

"Listen,  Doc " 

I  looked  up  into  his  altered  face — a  sallow, 
earnest  face,  fiercely  intent.  Every  atom  of 
the  man's  intelligence  was  alert,  concentrated 
on  me,  on  my  expression,  on  my  slightest 
movement. 

"Doc,"  he  said,  "let's  talk  business.  We're 
men,  we  are,  you  an'  me.  I've  fought  you 
plenty  times.  I  know.  An'  I  guess  you  are 
on  to  me,  too.  I  ain't  no  squealer;  you  know 
that  anyway.  Perhaps  I'm  everything  else 

141 


BARBARIANS 


you  claim  I  am  when  you  make  parlor  speeches 
to  Gussie  an'  Reggie  an'  when  you  stand  on 
a  bar'l  in  Avenoo  A  an'  say:  'my  friends'  to 
Billy  an'  Izzy  an'  Pete  the  Wop. 

"All  right.  Go  to  it!  I'm  it.  I  got  mine. 
That's  what  I'm  there  for.  But — when  I  get 
mine,  the  guys  that  back  me  get  theirs,  too. 
My  God,  Doc,  let's  talk  business!  What's  a 
little  graft  between  friends?" 

"Duck,"  I  said,  "you  own  the  50th  Ward. 
You  are  no  fool.  Why  is  it  not  possible  for 
you  to  understand  that  some  men  don't  graft?" 

"Aw,  can  it!"  he  retorted  fiercely.  "What 
else  is  there  to  chase  except  graft?  What 
else  is  there,  I  ask  you?  Graft!  Ain't  there 
graft  into  everything  God  ever  made?  An' 
don't  the  smart  guy  get  it  an'  take  his  an* 
divide  the  rest  same  as  you  an'  me?" 

"You  can't  comprehend  that  I  don't  graft, 
can  you,  Duck?" 

"What  do  you  call  it  what  you  get,  then? 
The  wages  of  Beeform?  And  what  do  you 
hand  out  to  your  lootenants  an'  your  friends  ?" 

"Service." 

142 


FIFTY-FIFTY 


"Hey?  Well,  all  right.  But  what's  in  it  for 
you?  Where  do  you  get  yours,  Doc?" 

"There's  nothing  in  it  for  me  except  to  give 
honest  service  to  the  people  who  trust  me." 

"Listen,"  he  persisted  with  a  sort  of  fero 
cious  patience;  "you  ain't  on  no  bar'l  now;  an' 
you  ain't  calling  no  Ginneys  and  no  Kikes 
your  friends.  You're  just  talkin'  to  me  like 
there  wasn't  nobody  else  onto  this  damn 
planet  excep'  us  two  guys.  Get  that?" 

"I  do." 

"And  I'm  tellin'  you  that  I  get  mine  same 
as  any  one  who  ain't  a  loonatic.  Get  that?" 

"Certainly." 

"All  right.  Now  I  know  you  ain't  no  nut. 
Which  means  that  you  get  yours,  whatever 
you  call  it.  And  now  will  you  talk  business?" 

"What  business  do  you  want  to  talk,  Duck?" 
I  added;  "I  should  say  that  you  already  have 
your  hands  rather  full  of  business  and  Lebel 
rifles " 

"Aw'  Gawd;  this?  This  ain't  business.  I  was 
a  damn  fool  and  I'm  doin'  time  like  any  souse 
what  the  bulls  pinch.  Only  I  get  more  than 
thirty  days,  I  do.  That's  what's  killin*  me, 

143 


BARBARIANS 


Doc! — Duck  Werner  in  a  tin  lid,  suckin'  soup 
an'  shootin'  Fritzies  when  I  oughter  be  in 
Noo  York  with  me  fren's  lookin'  after  busi 
ness.  Can  you  beat  it?"  he  ended  fiercely. 

He  chewed  hard  on  his  quid  for  a  few  mo 
ments,  staring  blankly  into  space  with  the  de 
tached  ferocity  of  a  caged  tiger. 

"What  are  they  a-doin'  over  there  in  the 
50th?"  he  demanded.  "How  do  I  know  whose 
knifin'  me  with  the  boys?  I  don't  mean  your 
party.  You're  here  same  as  I  am.  I  mean 
Mike  the  Kike,  and  the  regular  Reepublican 
nomination,  I  do.  .  .  .  And,  how  do  I  know 
when  you  are  going  back?" 

I  was  silent. 

"Are  you?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Doc,  will  you  talk  business,  man  to  man?" 

"Duck,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  the  hell  that  is 
in  full  blast  over  here — this  gigantic,  world 
wide  battle  of  nations — leaves  me,  for  the 
time,  uninterested  in  ward  politics." 

"Stop  your  kiddin'." 

"Can't  you  comprehend  it?" 

"Aw,  what  do  you  care  about  what  Kink  wins? 

14-1- 


FIFTY-FIFTY 


If  we  was  Kinks,  you  an'  me,  all  right.  But 
we  ain't  Doc.  We're  little  fellows.  Our  graft 
ain't  big  like  the  Dutch  Emperor's,  but  maybe 
it  comes  just  as  regular  on  pay  day.  Ich  ka 
bibble." 

"Duck,"  I  said,  "you  explain  your  presence 
here  by  telling  me  that  you  enlisted  while 
drunk.  How  do  you  explain  my  being  here?" 

"You're  a  Doc.  I  guess  there  must  be  big 
money  into  it,"  he  returned  with  a  wink. 

"I  draw  no  pay." 

"I  believe  you,"  he  remarked,  leering.  "Say, 
don't  you  do  that  to  me,  Doc.  I  may  be  un- 
fortunit;  I'm  a  poor  damn  fool  an'  I  know  it. 
But  don't  tell  me  you're  here  for  your  health." 

"I  won't  repeat  it,  Duck,"  I  said,  smiling. 

"Much  obliged.  Now  for  God's  sake  let's 
talk  business.  You  think  you've  got  me  cinched. 
You  think  you  can  go  home  an'  raise  hell  in  the 
50th  while  I'm  doin'  time  into  these  here 
trenches.  You  sez  to  yourself,  '0  there  ain't 
nothin'  to  it!'  An'  then  you  tickles  yourself 
under  the  ribs,  Doc.  You  better  make  a  deal 
with  me,  do  you  hear?  Gimme  mine,  and  you 
can  have  yours,  too;  and  between  us,  if  we 

145 


work  together,  we  can  hand  one  to  Mike  the 
Kike  that'll  start  every  ambulance  in  the  city 
after  him.  Get  me?" 

"There's  no  use  discussing  such  things— 

"All  right.  I  won't  ask  you  to  make  it 
fifty-fifty.  Gimme  half  what  I  oughter  have. 
You  can  fix  it  with  Curley  Tim  Brady— 

"Duck,  this  is  no  time— 

"Hell!  It's  all  the  time  I've  got!  What 
do  you  expec'  out  here,  a  caffy  dansong?  I 
don't  see  no  corner  gin-mills  around  neither. 
Listen,  Doc,  quit  up-stagin' !  You  an'  me  kick 
the  block  off'n  this  here  Kike-Wop  if  we  get 
together.  All  I  ask  of  you  is  to  talk  busi 
ness— 

I  moved  aside,  and  backward  a  little  way, 
disgusted  with  the  ratty  soul  of  the  man,  and 
stood  looking  at  the  soldiers  who  wrere  dig 
ging  out  bombproof  burrows  all  along  the 
trench  and  shoring  up  the  holes  with  heavy, 
green  planks. 

Everybody  was  methodically  busy  in  one  way 
or  another  behind  the  long  rank  of  Legion 
aries  who  stood  at  the  loops,  the  butts  of  the 
Lebel  rifles  against  their  shoulders. 

146 


FIFTY-FIFTY 


Some  sawed  planks  to  shore  up  dugouts; 
some  were  constructing  short  ladders  out  of 
the  trunks  of  slender  green  saplings;  some 
filled  sacks  with  earth  to  fill  the  gaps  on  the 
parapet  above;  others  sharpened  pegs  and 
drove  them  into  the  dirt  facade  of  the  trench, 
one  above  the  other,  as  footholds  for  the  men 
when  a  charge  was  ordered. 

Behind  me,  above  my  head,  wild  flowers  and 
long  wild  grasses  drooped  over  the  raw  edge 
of  the  parados,  and  a  few  stalks  of  ripening 
wheat  trailed  there  or  stood  out  against  the 
sky — an  opaque,  uncertain  sky  which  had  been 
so  calmly  blue,  but  which  was  now  sickening 
with  that  whitish  pallor  which  presages  a 
storm. 

Once  or  twice  there  came  the  smashing  tinkle 
of  glass  as  a  periscope  was  struck  and  a  vexed 
officer,  still  holding  it,  passed  it  to  a  rifleman 
to  be  laid  aside. 

Only  one  man  was  hit.  He  had  been  fit 
ting  a  shutter  to  the  tiny  embrasure  between 
sandbags  where  a  machine  gun  was  to  be 
mounted;  and  the  bullet  came  through  and 

147 


BARBARIANS 


entered  liis  head  in  the  center  of  the  triangle 
between  nose  and  eyebrows. 

A  little  later  when  I  was  returning  from 
that  job,  walking  slowly  along  the  trench, 
Pick-em-up  Joe  hailed  me  cheerfully,  and  I 
glanced  up  to  where  he  and  Heinie  stood 
with  their  rifles  thrust  between  the  sandbags 
and  their  grimy  fists  clutching  barrel  and 
butt. 

"Hello,  Heinie!"  I  said  pleasantly.  "How 
are  you,  Joe?" 

"Commong  c.a  va?"  inquired  Heinie,  evi 
dently  mortified  at  his  situation  and  condi 
tion,  but  putting  on  the  careless  front  of  a 
gunman  in  a  strange  ward. 

Pick-em-up  Joe  added  jauntily:  "Well,  Doc, 
what's  the  good  word?" 

"France,"  I  replied,  smiling;  "Do  you  know 
a  better  word?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "Noo  York.  Say,  what's 
your  little  graft  over  here,  Doc?" 

"You  and  I  reverse  roles,  Pick-em-up;  you 
stop  bullets;  7  pick  'em  up  —  after  you're 
through  with  'em." 

"The  hell  you  say!"  he  retorted,  grinning. 

148 


FIFTY-FIFTY 


"Well,  grab  it  from  me,  if  it  wasn't  for  the 
Jack  Johnsons  and  the  gas,  a  gun  fight  in 
the  old  50th  would  make  this  war  look  like 
Luna  Park!  It  listens  like  it,  too,  only  this 
here  show  is  all  fi-nally,  with  Bingle's  Band 
playin'  circus  tunes  an'  the  supes  hollerin'  like 
they  seen  real  money." 

He  was  a  merry  ruffian,  and  he  controlled 
the  "coke"  graft  in  the  50th  while  Heinie  was 
perpetual  bondsman  for  local  Magdalenes. 

"Well,  ain't  we  in  Dutch — us  three  guys!" 
he  remarked  with  forced  carelessness.  "We 
sure  done  it  that  time." 

"Did  you  do  business  with  Duck?"  inquired 
Pick-em-up,  curiously. 

"Not  so  he  noticed  it.  Joe,  can't  you  and 
Heinie  rise  to  your  opportunities?  This  is 
the  first  time  in  your  lives  you've  ever  been 
decent,  ever  done  a  respectable  thing.  Can't 
you  start  in  and  live  straight — think  straight? 
You're  wearing  the  uniform  of  God's  own 
soldiers;  you're  standing  shoulder  to  shoulder 
with  men  who  are  fighting  God's  own  bat 
tle.  The  fate  of  every  woman,  every  child, 
every  unborn  baby  in  Europe — and  in  Amer- 
11  149 


ica,  too — depends  on  your  bravery.  If  you 
don't  win  out,  it  will  be  our  turn  next  If 
you  don't  stop  the  Huns — if  you  don't  come 
back  at  them  and  wipe  them  out,  the  world 
will  not  be  worth  inhabiting." 

I  stepped  nearer:  "Heinie,"  I  said,  "you 
know  what  your  trade  has  been,  and  what  it  is 
called.  Here's  your  chance  to  clean  yourself. 
Joe — you've  dealt  out  misery,  insanity,  death, 
to  women  and  children.  You're  called  the 
Coke  King  of  the  East  Side.  Joe,  we'll  get 
you  sooner  or  later.  Don't  take  the  trouble 
to  doubt  it.  Why  not  order  a  new  pack  and 
a  fresh  deal?  Why  not  resolve  to  live  straight 
from  this  moment — here  where  you  have  taken 
your  place  in  the  ranks  among  real  men — here 
where  this  army  stands  for  liberty,  for  the 
right  to  live!  You've  got  your  chance  to 
become  a  real  man;  so  has  Heinie.  And 
when  you  come  back,  we'll  stand  by  you ' 

"An'  gimme  a  job  choppin'  tickets  in  the 
subway !"  snarled  Heinie.  "Expec'  me  to  squeal 
P r  that?  Eeeform,  hey?  Show  me  a  livin'  in 
it  an'  I  carry  a  banner.  But  there  ain't 

150 


FIFTY-FIFTY 


nothing  into  it.  How's  a  guy  to  live  if  there 
ain't  no  graft  into  nothin'?" 

Joe  touched  his  gas-mask  with  a  sneer: 
"He's  pushin'  the  yellow  stuff  at  us,  Heinie," 
he  said;  and  to  me:  "You  get  yours  all  right. 
I  don't  know  what  it  is,  but  you  get  it,  same 
as  me  an'  Heinie  an*  Duck.  I  don't  know 
what  it  is,"  he  repeated  impatiently;  "maybe 
it's  dough;  maybe  it's  them  suffragettes  with 
their  silk  feet  an'  white  gloves  what  clap 
their  hands  at  you.  I  ain't  saying  nothin' 
to  you,  am  I?  Then  lemme  alone  an'  go  an' 
talk  business  with  Duck  over  there : 

Officers  passed  rapidly  between  the  speaker 
and  me  and  continued  east  and  west  along 
the  ranks  of  riflemen,  repeating  in  calm,  steady 
voices : 

"Fix  bayonets,  mes  en f ants;  make  as  little 
noise  as  possible.  Everybody  ready  in  ten 
minutes.  Ladders  will  be  distributed.  Take 
them  with  you.  The  bomb-throwers  will  leave 
the  trench  first.  Put  on  goggles  and  respira 
tors.  Fix  bayonets  and  set  one  foot  on  the 
pegs  and  ladders  ...  all  ready  in  seven  min 
utes.  Three  mines  will  be  exploded.  Take 

151 


BARBARIANS 


and  hold  the  craters.  .  .  .  Five  minutes!  .  .  . 
When  the  mines  explode  that  is  your  signal. 
Bombers  lead.  Give  them  a  leg  up  and  fol 
low.  .  .  .  Three  minutes.  .  .  ." 

From  a  communication  trench  a  long  file  of 
masked  bomb-throwers  appeared,  loaded  sacks 
slung  under  their  left  arms,  bombs  clutched 
in  their  right  hands;  and  took  stations  at 
every  ladder  and  row  of  freshly  driven  pegs. 

"One  minute!"  repeated  the  officers,  select 
ing  their  own  ladders  and  drawing  their  long 
knives  and  automatics. 

As  I  finished  adjusting  my  respirator  and 
goggles  a  muffled  voice  at  my  elbow  began: 
"Be  a  sport,  Doc!  Gimme  a  chanst!  Make 
it  fifty-fifty " 

"Allez!"  shouted  an  officer  through  his  res 
pirator. 

Against  the  sky  all  along  the  parapet's  edge 
hundreds  of  bayonets  wavered  for  a  second; 
then  dark  figures  leaped  up,  scrambled, 
crawled  forward,  rose,  ran  out  into  the  Bun- 
less,  pallid  light. 

Like  surf  bursting  along  a  coast  a  curtain 
of  exploding  shells  stretched  straight  across  the 

152 


FIFTY-FIFTY 


debris  of  what  had  been  a  meadow — a  long 
line  of  livid  obscurity  split  with  flame  and 
storms  of  driving  sand  and  gravel.  Shrapnel 
leisurely  unfolded  its  cottony  coils  overhead 
and  the  iron  helmets  rang  under  the  hail. 

Men  fell  forward,  backward,  sideways,  re 
maining  motionless,  or  rolling  about,  or  rising 
to  limp  on  again.  There  was  smoke,  now,  and 
mire,  and  the  unbroken  rattle  of  machine  guns. 

Ahead,  men  were  fishing  in  their  sacks  and 
throwing  bombs  like  a  pack  of  boys  stoning 
a  snake;  I  caught  glimpses  of  them  furiously 
at  work  from  where  I  knelt  beside  one  fallen 
man  after  another,  desperately  busy  with  my 
own  business. 

Bearers  ran  out  where  I  was  at  work,  not 
my  own  company  but  some  French  ambulance 
sections  who  served  me  as  well  as  their  own 
surgeons  where,  in  a  shell  crater  partly  full 
of  water,  we  found  some  shelter  for  the 
wounded. 

Over  us  black  smoke  from  the  Jack  John- 
eons  rolled  as  it  rolls  out  of  the  stacks  of  soft- 
coal  burning  locomotives;  the  outrageous  din 
never  slackened,  but  our  deafened  ears  had 

155 


BARBARIANS 


become  insensible  under  the  repeated  blows  of 
sound,  yet  not  paralyzed.  For  I  remember, 
squatting  there  in  that  shell  crater,  hearing 
a  cricket  tranquilly  tuning  up  between  the 
thunderclaps  which  shook  earth  and  sods  down 
on  us  and  wrinkled  the  pool  of  water  at  our 
feet. 

The  Legion  had  taken  the  trench;  but  the 
place  was  a  rabbit  warren  where  hundreds  of 
holes  and  burrows  and  ditches  and  communi 
cating  runways  made  a  bewildering  maze. 

And  everywhere  in  the  dull,  flame-shot  ob 
scurity,  the  Legionaries  ran  about  like  ghouls 
in  their  hoods  and  round,  hollow  eye-holes; 
masked  faces,  indistinct  in  the  smoke,  loomed 
grotesque  and  horrible  as  Ku-Klux  where  the 
bayonets  were  at  work  digging  out  the  enemy 
from  blind  burrows,  turning  them  up  from 
their  bloody  forms. 

Rifles  blazed  down  into  bomb-proofs,  cracked 
steadily  over  the  heads  of  comrades  who  piled 
up  sandbags  to  block  communication  trenches; 
grenade-bombs  rained  down  through  the  smoke 
into  trenches,  blowing  bloody  gaps  in  huddling 
masses  of  struggling  Teutons  until  they  flat- 

154 


FIFTY-FIFTY 


teued  back  against  the  parados  and  lifted 
arms  and  gun-butts  stammering  out,  "Com 
rades!  Comrades!" — in  the  ghastly  irony  of 
surrender. 

A  man  whose  entire  helmet,  gas-mask,  and 
face  had  been  blown  off,  and  who  was  still 
alive  and  trying  to  speak,  stiffened,  relaxed, 
and  died  in  my  arms.  As  I  rolled  him  aside 
and  turned  to  the  next  man  whom  the  bear 
ers  were  lowering  into  the  crater,  his  respira 
tor  and  goggles  fell  apart,  and  I  found  my 
self  looking  into  the  ashy  face  of  Duck  Wer 
ner. 

As  we  laid  him  out  and  stripped  away  iron 
helmet  and  tunic,  he  said  in  a  natural  and 
distinct  voice. 

"Through  the  belly,  Doc.     Gimme  a  drink." 

There  was  no  more  water  or  stimulant  at 
the  moment  and  the  puddle  in  the  crater  was 
bloody.  He  said,  patiently,  "All  right;  I  can 
wait.  .  .  .  It's  in  the  belly.  ...  It  ain't  noth- 
in',  is  it?" 

I  said  something  reassuring,  something  about 
the  percentage  of  recovery  I  believe,  for  I 
was  exceedingly  busy  with  Duck's  anatomy. 

155 


BARBARIANS 


"Pull  ine  through,  Doc?"  he  inquired  calmly. 

"Sure.  .  .  ." 

"Aw,  listen,  Doc.  Don't  hand  me  no  cones 
of  hokey-pokey.  Gimme  a  deck  of  the  stuff. 
Dope  out  the  coke.  Do  I  get  mine  this  trip?" 

I  looked  at  him,  hesitating. 

"Listen,  Doc,  am  I  hurted  bad?  Gimme  a 
hones'  deal.  Do  I  croak?" 

"Don't  talk,  Duck " 

"Dope  it  straight    Do  I?" 

"Yes." 

"I  thought  you'd  say  that,"  he  returned  se 
renely.  "Now  I'm  goin'  to  fool  you,  same  as 
I  fooled  them  guys  at  Bellevue  the  night  that 
Mike  the  Kike  shot  me  up  in  the  subway." 

A  pallid  sneer  stretched  his  thin  and  burn 
ing  lips;  in  his  ratty  eyes  triumph  gleamed. 

"I've  went  through  worse  than  this.  I  ain't 
hurted  bad.  I  ain't  got  mine  just  yet,  old 
scout!  Would  I  leave  meself  croak — an'  that 
bum,  Mike  the  Kike,  handin'  me  fren's  the 
ha-ha!  Gawd,"  he  muttered  hazily,  as  though 
his  mind  was  beginning  to  cloud,  "just  f'r  that 
I'll  get  up  an' — an'  go — home — "  His  voice 
flattened  out  and  he  lay  silent. 

156 


FIFTY-FIFTY 


Working  over  the  next  man  beyond  him 
and  glancing  around  now  and  then  to  dis 
cover  a  brancardier  who  might  take  Duck  to 
the  rear,  I  presently  caught  his  eyes  fixed 
on  me. 

"Say,  Doc,  will  you  talk — business?"  he  asked 
in  a  dull  voice. 

"Be  quiet,  Duck,  the  bearers  will  be  here 
in  a  minute  or  two " 

"T'hell  wit  them  guys!  I'm  askin'  you  will 
you  make  it  fifty-fifty — V  somethin' — "  Again 
his  voice  trailed  away,  but  his  bright  ratty 
eyes  were  indomitable. 

I  was  bloodily  occupied  with  another  pa 
tient  when  something  struck  me  on  the  shoul 
der — a  human  hand,  clutching  it.  Duck  was 
sitting  upright,  eyes  a-glitter.  the  other  hand 
pressed  heavily  over  his  abdomen. 

"Fifty-fifty!"  he  cried  in  a  shrill  voice. 
"F'r  Christ's  sake,  Doc,  talk  business — "  And 
life  went  out  inside  him — like  the  flame  of  a 
suddenly  snuffed  candle — while  he  still  sat 
there.  .  .  . 

I   heard   the   air   escaping  from  ±iis   lungs 
157 


BARBARIANS 


before  he  toppled  over.  ...  I  swear  to  you  it 
sounded  like  a  whispered  word — "business." 

"Then  came  their  gas — a  great,  thick,  yellow 
billow  of  it  pouring  into  our  shell  hole.  .  .  . 
I  couldn't  get  my  mask  on  fast  enough  .  .  . 
and  here  I  am,  Gray,  wondering,  but  really 
knowing.  .  .  .  Are  you  stopping  at  the  Club 
tonight?" 

"Yes." 

Vail  got  to  his  feet  unsteadily:  "I'm  feeling 
rather  done  in.  ...  Won't  sit  up  any  longer, 
I  guess.  .  .  .  See  you  in  the  morning?" 

"Yes,"  said  Gray. 

"Good-night,  then.  Look  in  on  me  if  you 
leave  before  I'm  up." 

And  that  is  how  Gray  saw  him  before  he 
sailed — stopped  at  his  door,  knocked,  and,  re 
ceiving  no  response,  opened  and  looked  in. 
After  a  few  moments'  silence  he  understood 
that  the  "Seed  of  Death"  had  sprouted. 


CHAPTEE   XIII 

MULETEERS 

Lying  far  to  the  southwest  of  the  battle 
line,  only  when  a  strong  northwest  wind  blew 
could  Sainte  Lesse  hear  the  thudding  of  can 
non  beyond  the  horizon.  And  once,  when  the 
northeast  wind  had  blown  steadily  for  a 
week,  on  the  wings  of  the  driving  drizzle  had 
come  a  faint  but  dreadful  odour  which  hung 
among  the  streets  and  lanes  until  the  wind 
changed. 

Except  for  the  carillon,  nothing  louder  than 
the  call  of  a  cuckoo,  the  lowing  of  cattle  or 
a  goatherd's  piping  ever  broke  the  summer 
silence  in  the  little  town.  Birds  sang;  a 
shallow  river  rippled;  breezes  ruffled  green 
grain  into  long,  silvery  waves  across  the  val 
ley;  sunshine  fell  on  quiet  streets,  on  scented 
gardens  unsoiled  by  war,  on  groves  and 

159 


BARBARIANS 


meadows,  and  on  the  stone-edged  brink  of 
brimming  pools  where  washerwomen  knelt 
among  the  wild  flowers,  splashing  amid  float 
ing  pyramids  of  snowy  suds. 

And  into  the  exquisite  peace  of  this  little 
paradise  rode  John  Burley  with  a  thousand 
American  mules. 

The  town  had  been  warned  of  this  impend 
ing  visitation;  had  watched  preparations  for 
it  during  April  and  May  when  a  corral  was 
erected  down  in  a  meadow  and  some  huts 
and  stables  were  put  up  among  the  groves  of 
poplar  and  sycamore,  and  a  small  barracks 
was  built  to  accommodate  the  negro  guard 
ians  of  the  mules  and  a  peloton  of  gendarmes 
under  a  fat  brigadier. 

Sainte  Lesse  as  yet  knew  nothing  person 
ally  of  the  American  mule  or  of  Burley. 
Saine  Lesse  heard  both  before  it  beheld  either 
— Burley's  loud,  careless,  swaggering  voice 
above  the  hee-haw  of  his  trampling  herds: 

"All  I  ask  for  is  human  food,  Smith — not 
luxuries — just  food! — and  that  of  the  com 
monest  kind." 

And  now  an  immense  volume  of  noise  and 
160 


dust  enveloped  the  main  street  of  Sainte 
Lesse,  stilling  the  quiet  noon  gossip  of  the 
town,  silencing  the  birds,  awing  the  town 
dogs  so  that  their  impending  barking  died 
to  amazed  gurgles  drowned  in  the  din  of  the 
mules. 

Astride  a  cream-coloured,  wall-eyed  mule, 
erect  in  his  saddle,  talkative,  gesticulating, 
good-humoured,  famished  but  gay,  rode  Bur- 
ley  at  the  head  of  the  column,  his  reckless 
grey  eyes  glancing  amiably  right  and  left  at 
the  good  people  of  Sainte  Lesse  who  clus 
tered  silently  at  their  doorways  under  the 
trees  to  observe  the  passing  of  this  noisy, 
unfamiliar  procession. 

Mules,  dust;  mules,  dust,  and  then  more 
mules,  all  enveloped  in  dust,  clattering,  am 
bling,  trotting,  bucking,  shying,  kicking,  halt 
ing,  backing;  and  here  and  there  an  Ameri 
can  negro  cracking  a  long  snake  whip  with 
strange,  aboriginal  ejaculations;  and  three 
white  men  in  khaki  riding  beside  the 
trampling  column,  smoking  cigarettes. 

"Sticky"  Smith  and  "Kid"  Glenn  rode 
mules  on  the  column's  flank;  Burley  continued 

161 


BARBARIANS 


to  lead  on  his  wall-eyed  animal,  preceded  now 
by  the  fat  brigadier  of  the  gendarmerie,  upon 
whom  he  had  bestowed  a  cigarette. 

Burley,  talking  all  the  while  from  his  sad 
dle  to  whoever  cared  to  listen,  or  to  himself 
if  nobody  cared  to  listen,  rode  on  in  the  van 
under  the  ancient  bell-tower  of  Sainte  Lesse, 
where  a  slim,  dark-eyed  girl  looked  up  at 
him  as  he  passed,  a  faint  smile  hovering  on 
her  lips. 

"Bong  jour,  Mademoiselle,"  continued  Bur- 
ley,  saluting  her  en  passant  with  two  fingers 
at  the  vizor  of  his  khaki  cap,  as  he  had  seen 
British  officers  salute.  "I  compliment  you  on 
your  silent  but  eloquent  welcome  to  me,  my 
comrades,  my  coons,  and  my  mules.  Your 
charming  though  slightly  melancholy  smile 
bids  us  indeed  welcome  to  your  fair  city.  I 
thank  you;  I  thank  all  the  inhabitants  for 
this  unprecedented  ovation.  Doubtless  a  mu 
nicipal  banquet  awaits  us— 

Sticky  Smith  spurred  up. 

"Did  you  see  the  inn?"  he  asked.  "There 
it  is,  to  the  right." 

"It  looks  good  to  me,"  said  Burley. 
162 


MULETEERS 


"Everything  looks  good  to  me  except  these 
accursed  mules.  Thank  God,  that  seems  to 
be  the  corral — down  in  the  meadow  there, 
Brigadeer  I" 

The  fat  brigadier  drew  bridle;  Burley  burst 
into  French: 

"Esker — esker " 

"Oui"  nodded  the  brigadier,  "that  is  where 
we  are  going." 

"Bong!"  exclaimed  Burley  with  satisfac 
tion;  and,  turning  to  Sticky  Smith:  "Stick, 
tell  the  coons  to  hustle.  We're  there!" 

Then,  above  the  trampling,  whip-cracking, 
and  shouting  of  the  negroes,  from  somewhere 
high  in  the  blue  sky  overhead,  out  of  limpid, 
cloudless  heights  floated  a  single  bell-note, 
then  another,  another,  others  exquisitely 
sweet  and  clear,  melting  into  a  fragment  of 
heavenly  melody. 

Burley  looked  up  into  the  sky;  the  negroes 
raised  their  sweating,  dark  faces  in  pleased 
astonishment;  Stick  and  Kid  Glenn  lifted 
puzzled  visages  to  the  zenith.  The  fat  briga 
dier  smiled  and  waved  his  cigarette: 

163 


TtARBAKIANS 


"II  est  midi,  messieurs.  That  is  the  carillon 
of  Sainte  Lesse." 

The  angelic  melody  died  away.  Then,  high 
in  the  old  bell-tower,  a  great  resonant  bell 
struck  twelve  times. 

Said  the  brigadier: 

"When  the  wind  is  right,  they  can  hear  our 
big  bell,  Bayard,  out  there  in  the  first  line 
trenches " 

Again  he  waved  his  cigarette  toward  the 
northeast,  then  reined  in  his  horse  and  backed 
off  into  the  flowering  meadow,  while  the  first 
of  the  American  mules  entered  the  corral, 
the  herd  following  pellmell. 

The  American  negroes  went  with  the  mules 
to  a  hut  prepared  for  them  inside  the  corral 
—it  having  been  previously  and  carefully  ex 
plained  to  France  that  an  American  mule 
without  its  negro  complement  was  as  galvanic 
and  unaccountable  as  a  beheaded  chicken. 

Burley  burst  into  French  again,  like  a 
shrapnel  shell: 

"Esker — esker " 

"Oi«,"  said  the  fat  brigadier,  "there  is  an 
excellent  inn  up  the  street,  messieurs."  And 

164 


MULETEERS 


he  saluted  their  uniform,  the  same  being  con 
structed  of  cotton  khaki,  with  a  horseshoe 
on  the  arm  and  an  oxidized  metal  mule  on 
the  collar.  The  brigadier  wondered  at  and 
admired  the  minute  nicety  of  administrative 
detail  characterizing  a  government  which 
clothed  even  its  muleteers  so  becomingly,  yet 
with  such  modesty  and  dignity. 

He  could  not  know  that  the  uniform  was 
unauthorized  and  the  insignia  an  invention 
of  Sticky  Smith,  aiming  to  counteract  any 
social  stigma  that  might  blight  his  sojourn 
in  France. 

"For,"  said  Sticky  Smith,  before  they  went 
aboard  the  transport  at  New  Orleans,  "if  you 
dress  a  man  in  khaki,  with  some  gimcrack 
on  his  sleeve  and  collar,  you're  level  with 
anybody  in  Europe.  "Which,"  he  added  to 
Burley,  "will  make  it  pleasant  if  any  empe 
rors  or  kings  drop  in  on  us  for  a  drink  or  a 
quiet  game  behind  the  lines." 

"Also,"  added  Burley,  "it  goes  with  the 
ladies."  And  he  and  Kid  Glenn  purchased 
uniforms  similar  to  Smith's  and  had  the 
12  165 


BARBARIANS 


horseshoe  and  mule  fastened  to  sleeve  and 
collar. 

"They'll  hang  you  fellows  for  francs- 
tireurs,"  remarked  a  battered  soldier  of  for 
tune  from  the  wharf  as  the  transport  cast 
off  and  glided  gradually  away  from  the  sun- 
blistered  docks. 

"Hang  wlio?"  demanded  Burley  loudly 
from  the  rail  above. 

"What's  a  frank-tiroorf  inquired  Sticky 
Smith. 

"And  who'll  hang  us?"  shouted  Kid  Glenn 
from  the  deck  of  the  moving  steamer. 

"The  Germans  will  if  they  catch  you  in 
that  uniform,"  retorted  the  battered  soldier 
of  fortune  derisively.  "You  chorus-boy  mule 
drivers  will  wish  you  wore  overalls  and  one 
suspender  if  the  Dutch  Kaiser  nails  you!" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

LA  PLOO   BELLE 

They  had  been  nearly  three  weeks  on  the 
voyage,  three  days  in  port,  four  more  on 
cattle  trains,  and  had  been  marching  since 
morning  from  the  nearest  railway  station  at 
Estville-sur-Lesse. 

Now,  lugging  their  large  leather  hold-alls, 
they  started  up  the  main  street  of  Sainte 
Lesse,  three  sunburnt,  loud-talking  Ameri 
cans,  young,  sturdy,  careless  of  glance  and 
voice  and  gesture,  perfectly  self-satisfied. 

Their  footsteps  echoed  loudly  on  the  pave 
ment  of  this  still,  old  town,  lying  so  quietly 
in  the  shadow  of  its  aged  trees  and  its  six 
teenth  century  belfry,  where  the  great  bell, 
Bayard,  had  hung  for  hundreds  of  years,  and, 
tier  on  tier  above  it,  clustered  in  set  ranks 
the  fixed  bells  of  the  ancient  carillon. 

167 


BARBARIANS 


"Some  skyscraper,"  observed  Burley,  pa 
tronizing  the  bell-tower  with  a  glance. 

As  he  spoke,  they  came  to  the  inn,  a  very 
ancient  hostelry  built  into  a  remnant  of  the 
old  town  wall,  and  now  a  part  of  it.  On  the 
signboard  was  painted  a  white  doe;  and  that 
was  the  name  of  the  inn. 

So  they  trooped  through  the  stone-arched 
tunnel,  ushered  by  a  lame  innkeeper;  and 
Burley,  chancing  to  turn  his  head  and  glance 
back  through  the  shadowy  stone  passage, 
caught  a  glimpse  in  the  outer  sunshine  of 
the  girl  whose  dark  eyes  had  inspired  him 
with  jocular  eloquence  as  he  rode  on  his  mule 
under  the  bell-tower  of  Sainte  Lesse. 

"A  peach,"  he  said  to  Smith.  And  the 
sight  of  her  apparently  going  to  his  head, 
he  burst  into  French:  "Tray  chick!  Tray, 
tray  chick!  I'm  glad  I've  got  on  this  uni 
form  and  not  overalls  and  one  suspender." 

"What's  biting  you?"  inquired  Smith. 

"Nothing,  Stick,  nothing.  But  I  believe 
I've  seen  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  world  right 
here  in  this  two-by-four  town." 

1G8 


LA    PLOO   BELLE 


Stick  glanced  over  his  shoulder,  then 
shrugged : 

"She's  ornamental,  only  she's  got  a  sad 
on." 

But  Burley  trudged  on  with  his  leather 
hold-all,  muttering  to  himself  something 
about  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  world. 

The  "prettiest  girl  in  the  world"  continued 
her  way  unconscious  of  the  encomiums  of 
John  Burley  and  the  critique  of  Sticky  Smith. 
Her  way,  however,  seemed  to  be  the  way  of 
Burley  and  his  two  companions,  for  she 
crossed  the  sunny  street  and  entered  the 
"White  Doe  by  the  arched  door  and  tunnel- 
like  passage. 

Unlike  them,  however,  she  turned  to  the 
right  in  the  stone  corridor,  opened  a  low 
wooden  door,  crossed  the  inn  parlour,  ascended 
a  short  stairway,  and  entered  a  bedroom. 

Here,  standing  before  a  mirror,  she  un 
pinned  her  straw  hat,  smoothed  her  dark 
hair,  resting  her  eyes  pensively  for  a  few 
moments  on  her  reflected  face.  Then  she 
sauntered  listlessly  about  the  little  room  in 
performance  of  those  trivial,  aimless  offices, 

169 


BARBARIANS 


entirely  feminine,  such  as  opening  all  the 
drawers  in  her  clothes-press,  smoothing  out 
various  frilly  objects  and  fabrics,  investigat 
ing  a  little  gilded  box  and  thoughtfully  in 
specting  its  contents,  which  consisted  of  hair 
pins.  Fussing  here,  lingering  there,  loitering 
by  her  bird-cage,  where  a  canary  cheeped  its 
greeting  and  hopped  and  hopped;  bending 
over  a  cluster  of  white  phlox  in  a  glass  of 
water  to  inhale  the  old-fashioned  perfume, 
she  finally  tied  on  a  fresh  apron  and  walked 
slowly  out  to  the  ancient,  vaulted  kitchen. 

An  old  peasant  woman  was  cooking,  while 
a  young  one  washed  dishes. 

"Are  the  American  gentlemen  still  at  table, 
Julie?"  she  inquired. 

"Mademoiselle  Maryette,  they  are  devour 
ing  everything  in  the  house!"  exclaimed  old 
Julie,  flinging  both  hands  toward  heaven. 
"Tenez,  mamzelle,  I  have  heard  of  eating  in 
ancient  days,  I  have  read  of  Gargantua,  I 
have  been  told  of  banquets,  of  feasting,  of 
appetites!  But  there  is  one  American  in 
there!  Mamzelle  Maryette,  if  I  should  swear 
to  you  that  he  is  on  his  third  chicken  and 

170 


LA    PLOO   BELLE 


that  a  row  of  six  pint  bottles  of  '93  Mar- 
gaux  stand  empty  on  the  cloth  at  his  elbow, 
I  should  do  no  penance  for  untruthfulness. 
Tenez,  Mamzelle  Maryette,  regardez  un  peu 
par  I'oubliette—  And  old  Julie  slid  open 
the  wooden  shutter  on  the  crack  and  Maryette 
bent  forward  and  surveyed  the  dining  room 
outside. 

They  were  laughing  very  loud  in  there, 
these  three  Americans — three  powerful,  sun- 
scorched  young  men,  very  much  at  their  ease 
around  the  table,  draining  the  red  Bordeaux 
by  goblets,  plying  knife  and  fork  with  joyous 
and  undiminished  vigour. 

The  tall  one  with  the  crisp  hair  and  clear, 
grayish  eyes — he  of  the  three  chickens — 
was  already  achieving  the  third — a  crisply 
browned  bird,  fresh  from  the  spit,  fragrant 
and  smoking  hot.  At  intervals  he  buttered 
great  slices  of  rye  bread,  or  disposed  of  an 
entire  young  potato,  washing  it  down  with  a 
goblet  of  red  wine,  but  always  he  returned 
to  the  rich  roasted  fowl  which  he  held,  still 
impaled  upon  its  spit,  and  which  he  carved 

171 


BARBARIANS 


as  he  ate,  wings,  legs,  breast  falling  in  steam 
ing  flakes  under  his  skillful  knife  blade. 

Sticky  Smith  finally  pushed  aside  his  drained 
glass  and  surveyed  an  empty  plate  frankly 
and  regretfully,  unable  to  continue.  He  said: 

"I'm  going  to  bed  and  I'm  going  to  sleep 
twenty-four  hours.  After  that  I'm  going  to 
eat  for  twenty-four  more  hours,  and  then  I'll 
be  in  good  shape.  Bong  soir." 

"Aw,  stick  around  with  the  push!"  remon 
strated  Kid  Glenn  thickly,  impaling  another 
potato  upon  his  fork  and  gesticulating  with  it. 

Smith  gazed  with  surfeited  but  hopeless 
envy  upon  Burley's  magnificent  work  with 
knife  and  fork,  saw  him  crack  a  seventh  bot 
tle  of  Bordeaux,  watched  him  empty  the  first 
goblet. 

But  even  Glenn's  eyes  began  to  dull  in 
spite  of  himself,  his  head  nodded  mechan 
ically  at  every  mouthful  achieved. 

"I  gotta  call  it  off,  Jack,"  he  yawned. 
"Stick  and  I  need  the  sleep  if  you  don't. 
So  here's  where  we  quit " 

"Let  me  tell  you  about  that  girl,"  began 
Burley.  "I  never  saw  a  prettier — "  But 

172 


LA    PLOO   BELLE 


Glenn  had  appetite  neither  for  food  nor 
romance : 

"Say,  listen.  Have  a  heart,  Jack!  We 
need  the  sleep!" 

Stick  had  already  risen;  Glenn  shoved  back 
his  chair  with  a  gigantic  yawn  and  shambled 
to  his  feet. 

"I  want  to  tell  you,"  insisted  Burley,  "that 
she's  what  the  French  call  tray,  tray 
chick " 

Stick  pointed  furiously  at  the  fowl: 

"Chick?  I'm  fed  up  on  chick!  Maybe  she 
is  some  chick,  as  you  say,  but  it  doesn't  in 
terest  me.  Goo'bye.  Don't  come  battering 
at  my  door  and  wake  me  up,  Jack.  Be  a 
sport  and  lemme  alone " 

He  turned  and  shuffled  out,  and  Glenn  fol 
lowed,  his  Mexican  spurs  clanking. 

Burley  jeered  them: 

"Mollycoddles!  Come  on  and  take  in  the 
town  with  us !" 

But  they  slammed  the  door  behind  them, 
and  he  heard  them  stumbling  and  clanking 
up  stairs. 

So    Burley,    gazing   gravely   at   his    empty 

173 


BARBARIANS 


plate,  presently  emptied  the  last  visible  bot 
tle  of  Bordeaux,  then  stretching  his  mighty 
arms  and  superb  chest,  fished  out  a  cigarette, 
set  fire  to  it,  unhooked  the  cartridge-belt  and 
holster  from  the  back  of  his  chair,  buckled 
it  on,  rose,  pulled  on  his  leather-peaked  cap, 
and  drew  a  deep  breath  of  contentment. 

For  a  moment  he  stood  in  the  centre  of 
the  room,  as  though  in  pleasant  meditation, 
then  he  slowly  strode  toward  the  street  door, 
murmuring  to  himself :  "Tray,  tray  chick.  The 
prettiest  girl  in  the  world.  ...  La  ploo  belle 
fille  du  monde  ...  la  ploo  belle.  .  .  ." 

He  strolled  as  far  as  the  corral  down  in 
the  meadow  by  the  stream,  where  he  found 
the  negro  muleteers  asleep  and  the  mules 
already  watered  and  fed. 

For  a  while  he  hobnobbed  with  the  three 
gendarmes  on  duty  there,  practicing  his  kind 
of  French  on  them  and  managing  to  under 
stand  and  be  understood  more  or  less — prob 
ably  less. 

But  the  young  man  was  persistent;  he  de 
sired  to  become  that  easy  master  of  the 
French  language  that  his  tongue-tied  com- 

174 


LA    PLOO   BELLE 


rades  believed  him  to  be.  So  he  practiced 
garrulously  upon  the  polite,  suffering  gen 
darmes. 

He  related  to  them  his  experience  on  ship 
board  with  a  thousand  mutinous  mules  to 
pacify,  feed,  water,  and  otherwise  cherish. 
They  had,  it  appeared,  encountered  no  sub 
marines,  but  enjoyed  several  alarms  from 
destroyers  which  eventually  proved  to  be 
British. 

"A  cousin  of  mine,"  explained  Burley, 
"Ned  Winters,  of  El  Paso,  went  down  on  the 
steamer  John  B.  Doty,  with  eleven  hundred 
mules  and  six  niggers.  The  Boches  torpedoed 
the  ship  and  then  raked  the  boats.  I'd  like 
to  get  a  crack  at  one  Boche  before  I  go  back 
to  God's  country." 

The  gendarmes  politely  but  regretfully 
agreed  that  it  was  impracticable  for  Burley 
to  get  a  crack  at  a  Hun;  and  the  American 
presently  took  himself  off  to  the  corral,  after 
distributing  cigarettes  and  establishing  cor 
dial  relations  with  the  Sainte  Lesse  Gen 
darmerie. 

He  waked  up  a  negro  and  inspected  the 
175 


BARBARIANS 


mules;  that  took  a  long  time.  Then  he  sought 
out  the  negro  blacksmith,  awoke  him,  and 
wrote  out  some  directions. 

"The  idea  is,"  he  explained,  "that  when 
ever  the  French  in  this  sector  need  mules 
they  draw  on  our  corral.  We  are  supposed 
to  keep  ten  or  eleven  hundred  mules  here  all 
the  time  and  look  after  them.  Shipments 
come  every  two  weeks,  I  believe.  So  after 
you've  had  another  good  nap,  George,  you 
wake  up  your  boys  and  get  busy.  And 
there'll  be  trouble  if  things  are  not  in  run 
ning  order  by  tomorrow  night." 

"Yas,  suh,  Mistuh  Burley,"  nodded  the 
sleepy  blacksmith,  still  blinking  in  the  after 
noon  sunshine. 

"And  if  you  need  an  interpreter,"  added 
Burley,  "always  call  on  me  until  you  learn 
French  enough  to  get  on.  Understand, 
George?" 

"Yas,  suh." 

"Because,"  said  Burley,  walking  away,  "a 
thorough  knowledge  of  French  idioms  is 
necessary  to  prevent  mistakes.  When  in 
doubt  always  apply  to  me,  George,  for  only 

176 


LA    PLOO   BELLE 


a  master  of  the  language  is  competent  to 
deal  with  these  French  people." 

It  was  his  one  vanity,  his  one  weakness. 
Perhaps,  because  he  so  ardently  desired  pro 
ficiency,  he  had  already  deluded  himself  with 
the  belief  that  he  was  a  master  of  French. 

So,  belt  and  loaded  holster  sagging,  and 
large  silver  spurs  clicking  and  clinking  at 
every  step,  John  Burley  sauntered  back  along 
the  almost  deserted  street  of  Sainte  Lesse, 
thinking  sometimes  of  his  mules,  sometimes 
of  the  French  language,  and  every  now  and 
then  of  a  dark-eyed,  dark-haired  girl  whose 
delicately  flushed  and  pensive  gaze  he  had  en 
countered  as  he  had  ridden  into  Sainte  Lesse 
under  the  old  belfry. 

"Stick  Smith's  a  fool,"  he  thought  to  him 
self  impatiently.  "Tray  chick  doesn't  mean 
'some  chicken.'  It  means  a  pretty  girl,  in 
French." 

He  looked  up  at  the  belfry  as  he  passed 
under  it,  and  at  the  same  moment,  from  be 
neath  the  high,  gilded  dragon  which  crowned 
its  topmost  spire,  a  sweet  bell-note  floated, 
another,  others  succeeding  in  crystalline 

177 


BARBARIANS 


sweetness,  linked  in  a  fragment  of  some  an 
cient  melody.  Then  they  ceased;  then  came 
a  brief  silence;  the  great  bell  he  had  heard 
before  struck  five  times. 

"Lord! — that's  pretty,"  he  murmured,  mov 
ing  on  and  turning  into  the  arched  tunnel 
which  was  the  entrance  to  the  White  Doe  Inn. 

Wandering  at  random,  he  encountered  the 
innkeeper  in  the  parlour,  studying  a  crumpled 
newspaper  through  horn-rimmed  spectacles 
on  his  nose. 

"Tray  jolie,"  said  Burley  affably,  seating 
himself  with  an  idea  of  further  practice  in 
French. 

"Plait-tit" 

"The  bells— tray  beau!" 

The  old  man  straightened  his  bent  shoul 
ders  a  little  proudly. 

"For  thirty  years,  m'sieu,  I  have  been  Caril- 
lonneur  of  Sainte  Lesse."  He  smiled;  then, 
saddened,  he  held  out  both  hands  toward  Bur- 
ley.  The  fingers  were  stiff  and  crippled  with 
rheumatism. 

"No  more,"  he  said  slowly;  "the  carillon  is 
178 


LA    PLOO   BELLE 


ended  for  me.  The  great  art  is  no  more  for 
Jean  Courtray,  Master  of  Bells." 

"What  is  a  carillon?"  inquired  John  Burley 
simply. 

Blank  incredulity  was  succeeded  by  a 
shocked  expression  on  the  old  man's  visage. 
After  a  silence,  in  mild  and  patient  protest, 
he  said: 

"I  am  Jean  Courtray,  Carillonneur  of 
Sainte  Lesse.  .  .  .  Have  you  never  heard  of 
the  carillon  of  Sainte  Lesse,  or  of  me?" 

"Never,"  said  Burley.  "We  don't  have 
anything  like  that  in  America." 

The  old  carillonneur,  Jean  Courtray,  began 
to  speak  in  a  low  voice  of  his  art,  his  pro 
fession,  and  of  the  great  carillon  of  forty- 
six  bells  in  the  ancient  tower  of  Sainte  Lesse. 

A  carillon,  he  explained,  is  a  company  of 
fixed  bells  tuned  according  to  the  chromatic 
scale  and  ranging  through  several  octaves. 
These  bells,  rising  tier  above  tier  in  a  belfry, 
the  smallest  highest,  the  great,  ponderous 
bells  of  the  bass  notes  lowest,  are  not  free 
to  swing,  but  are  fixed  to  huge  beams,  and 
are  sounded  by  clappers  connected  by  a  wil- 

179 


BARBARIANS 


derness  of  wires  to  a  keyboard  which  is  played 
upon  by  the  bell-master  or  carillonneur. 

He  explained  that  the  office  of  bell-master 
was  an  ancient  one  and  greatly  honoured; 
that  the  bell-master  was  also  a  member  of  the 
municipal  government;  that  his  salary  was  a 
fixed  one;  that  not  only  did  he  play  upon  the 
carillon  on  fete  days,  market  days,  and  par 
ticular  occasions,  but  he  also  travelled  and 
gave  concerts  upon  the  few  existing  carillons 
of  other  ancient  towns  and  cities,  not  alone 
in  France  where  carillons  were  few,  but  in 
Belgium  and  Holland,  where  they  still  were 
comparatively  many,  although  the  German 
barbarians  had  destroyed  some  of  the  best  at 
Liege,  Arras,  Dixmude,  Termonde,  and  Ypres. 

"Monsieur,"  he  went  on  in  a  voice  which 
began  to  grow  a  little  unsteady,  "the  Huns 
have  destroyed  the  ancient  carillons  of  Lou- 
vain  and  of  Mechlin.  In  the  superb  bell- 
tower  of  Saint  Rombold  I  have  played  for  a 
thousand  people;  and  the  Carillonneur,  Mon 
sieur  Vincent,  and  the  great  bell-master,  Josef 
Denyn,  have  come  to  me  to  congratulate  me 
with  tears  in  their  eyes — in  their  eyes— 

180 


LA    PLOO   BELLE 


There  were  tears  in  his  own  now,  and  he 
bent  his  white  head  and  looked  down  at  the 
worn  floor  nnder  his  crippled  feet. 

"Alas,"  he  said,  "for  Denyn — and  for  Saint 
Rombold's  tower.  The  Hun  has  passed  that 
way." 

After  a  silence: 

"Who  is  it  now  plays  the  carillon  in  Sainte 
Lesse!"  asked  Burley. 

"My  daughter,  Maryette.  Sainte  Lesse  has 
honoured  me  in  my  daughter,  whom  I  myself 
instructed.  My  daughter — the  little  child  of 
my  old  age,  monsieur — is  mistress  of  the  bells 
of  Sainte  Lesse.  .  .  .  They  call  her  Carillon- 
nette  in  Sainte  Lesse " 

The  door  opened  and  the  girl  came  in. 


13 


CHAPTER   XV 

CARILLONNETTE 

Sticky  Smith  and  Kid  Glenn  remained  a 
week  at  Sainte  Lesse,  then  left  with  the 
negroes  for  Calais  to  help  bring  up  another 
cargo  of  mules,  the  arrival  of  which  was  daily 
expected. 

A  peloton  of  the  Train-des-Equipages  and 
three  Remount  troopers  arrived  at  Sainte 
Lesse  to  take  over  the  corral.  John  Burley 
remained  to  explain  and  interpret  the  Ameri 
can  mule  to  these  perplexed  troopers. 

Morning,  noon,  and  night  he  went  clanking 
down  to  the  corral,  his  cartridge  belt  and 
holster  swinging  at  his  hip.  But  sometimes 
he  had  a  little  leisure. 

Sainte  Lesse  knew  him  as  a  mighty  eater 
and  as  a  lusty  drinker  of  good  red  wine;  as 
a  mighty  and  garrulous  talker,  too,  he  be- 

182 


CARILLONNETTE 


came  known,  ready  to  accost  anybody  in  the 
quiet  and  subdued  old  town  and  explode  into 
French  at  the  slightest  encouragement. 

But  Burley  had  only  women  and  children 
and  old  men  on  whom  to  practice  his  earnest 
and  voluble  French,  for  everybody  else  was 
at  the  front. 

Children  adored  him — adored  his  big,  sil 
ver  spurs,  his  cartridge  belt  and  pistol,  the 
metal  mule  decorating  his  tunic  collar,  his 
six  feet  two  of  height,  his  quick  smile,  the 
even  white  teeth  and  grayish  eyes  of  this 
American  muleteer,  who  always  had  a  stick 
of  barley  sugar  to  give  them  or  an  amazing 
trick  to  perform  for  them  with  a  handker 
chief  or  coin  that  vanished  under  their  very 
noses  at  the  magic  snap  of  his  finger. 

Old  men  gossiped  willingly  with  him; 
women  liked  him  and  their  rare  smiles  in  the 
war-sobered  town  of  Sainte  Lesse  were  often 
for  him  as  he  sauntered  along  the  quiet  street, 
clanking,  swaggering,  affable,  ready  for  con 
versation  with  anybody,  and  always  ready  for 
the  small,  confident  hands  that  unceremoni- 

183 


EAEEAEIANS 


ously  clasped  his  when  lie  passed  by  where 
children  played. 

As  for  Maryette  Courtray,  called  Carillon- 
nette,  she  mounted  the  bell-tower  once  every 
hour,  from  six  in  the  morning  until  nine 
o'clock  in  the  evening,  to  play  the  passing  of 
Time  toward  that  eternity  into  which  it  is 
always  and  ceaselessly  moving. 

After  nine  o'clock  Carillonnette  set  the  drum 
and  wound  it;  and  through  the  dark  hours  of 
the  night  the  bells  played  mechanically  every 
hour  for  a  few  moments  before  Bayard 
struck. 

Between  these  duties  the  girl  managed  the 
old  inn,  to  which,  since  the  war,  nobody  came 
any  more — and  with  these  occupations  her  life 
was  full — sufficiently  full,  perhaps,  without 
the  advent  of  John  Burley. 

They  met  with  enough  frequency  for  her, 
if  not  for  him.  Their  encounters  took  place 
between  her  duties  aloft  at  the  keyboard  un 
der  the  successive  tiers  of  bells  and  his  in 
tervals  of  prowling  among  his  mules. 

Sometimes  he  found  her  sewing  in  the  par 
lour — she  could  have  gone  to  her  own  room, 

184 


CARILLONNETTE 


of  course;  sometimes  he  encountered  her  in 
the  corridor,  in  the  street,  in  the  walled  gar 
den  behind  the  inn,  where  with  basket  and 
pan  she  gathered  vegetables  in  season. 

There  was  a  stone  seat  out  there,  built 
against  the  southern  wall,  and  in  the  shad 
owed  coolness  of  it  she  sometimes  shelled 
peas. 

During  such  an  hour  of  liberty  from  the 
bell-tower  he  found  the  dark-eyed  little  mis 
tress  of  the  bells  sorting  various  vegetables 
and  singing  under  her  breath  to  herself  the 
carillon  music  of  Josef  Denyn. 

"Tray  chick,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  with 
a  cheerful  self-assertion,  to  hide  the  embar 
rassment  which  always  assailed  him  when  he 
encountered  her. 

"You  know,  Monsieur  Burley,  you  should 
not  say  'tres  chic1  to  me,"  she  said,  shaking 
her  pretty  head.  "It  sounds  a  little  familiar 
and  a  little  common." 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed,  very  red.  "I  thought 
it  was  the  thing  to  say." 

She  smiled,  continuing  to  shell  the  peas, 
then,  with  her  sensitive  and  slightly  flushed 

185 


BARBARIANS 


face  still  lowered,  she  looked  at  him  out  of 
her  dark  blue  eyes. 

"Sometimes,"  she  said,  "young  men  say 
'tres  chic.1  It  depend  on  when  and  how  one 
says  it." 

"Are  there  times  when  it  is  all  right  for 
me  to  say  it?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  ...  How  are  your  mules 
today?" 

"The  same,"  he  said,  " — ready  to  bite  or 
kick  or  eat  their  heads  off.  The  Remount 
took  two  hundred  this  morning." 

"I  saw  them  pass,"  said  the  girl.  "I 
thought  perhaps  you  also  might  be  depart 
ing." 

"Without  coming  to  say  good-bye — to  you!" 
he  stammered. 

"Oh,  conventions  must  be  disregarded  in 
time  of  war,"  she  returned  carelessly,  con 
tinuing  to  shell  peas.  "I  really  thought  I 
saw  you  riding  away  with  the  mules." 

"That  man,"  said  Burley,  much  hurt,  "was 
a  bow-legged  driver  of  the  Train-des-Equi- 
pages.  I  don't  think  he  resembles  me." 

As  she  made  no  comment  and  expressed  no 
186 


CARILLONNETTE 


contrition  for  her  mistake,  he  gazed  about 
him  at  the  sunny  garden  with  a  depressed 
expression.  However,  this  changed  presently 
to  a  bright  and  hopeful  one. 

"Vooz  ate  tray,  tray  belle,  mademoiselle!" 
he  asserted  cheerfully. 

"Monsieur!"  Vexed  perhaps  as  much  at 
her  own  quick  blush  as  his  abrupt  eulogy,  she 
bit  her  lip  and  looked  at  him  with  an  omi 
nously  level  gaze.  Then,  suddenly,  she  smiled. 

"Monsieur  Burley,  one  does  not  so  express 
one's  self  without  reason,  without  apropos, 
without — without  encouragement " 

She  blushed  again,  vividly.  Under  her  wide 
straw  hat  her  delicate,  sensitive  face  and 
dark  blue  eyes  were  beautiful  enough  to  in 
spire  eulogy  in  any  young  man. 

"Pardon,"  he  said,  confused  by  her  repri 
mand  and  her  loveliness.  "I  shall  hereafter 
only  think  you  are  pretty,  mademoiselle — mais 
je  ne  le  dirais  ploo." 

"That  would  be  perhaps  more — comme  il 
faut,  monsieur." 

"Ploo!"  he  repeated  with  emphasis.  "Ploo 
jamais!  Je  vous  jure " 

187 


"Merci;  it  is  not  perhaps  necessary  to 
swear  quite  so  solemnly,  monsieur." 

She  raised  her  eyes  from  the  pan,  moving 
her  small,  sun-tanned  hand  through  the  heaps 
of  green  peas,  filling  her  palm  with  them  and 
idly  letting  them  run  through  her  slim  fingers. 

"L'amour,"  he  said  with  an  effort — "how 
funny  it  is — isn't  it,  mademoiselle?" 

"I  know  nothing  about  it,"  she  replied  with 
decision,  and  rose  with  her  pan  of  peas. 

"Are  you  going,  mademoiselle?" 

"Yes." 

"Have  I  offended  you?" 

"No." 

He  trailed  after  her  down  the  garden  path 
between  rows  of  blue  larkspurs  and  holly 
hocks — just  at  her  dainty  heels,  because  the 
brick  walk  was  too  narrow  for  both  of  them. 

"Ploo,"  he  repeated  appealingly. 

Over  her  shoulder  she  said  with  disdain: 

"It  is  not  a  topic  for  conversation  among 
the  young,  monsieur — what  you  call  I' amour" 
And  she  entered  the  kitchen,  where  he  had 
not  the  effrontery  to  follow  her. 

That     evening,     toward    sunset,     returning 

188 


CARILLONNETTE 


from,  the  corral,  he  heard,  high  in  the  blue 
sky  above  him,  her  bell-music  drifting;  and 
involuntarily  uncovering,  he  stood  with  bared 
head  looking  upward  while  the  celestial  mel 
ody  lasted. 

And  that  evening,  too,  being  the  fete  of 
Alincourt,  a  tiny  neighbouring  village  across 
the  river,  the  bell-mistress  went  up  into  the 
tower  after  dinner  and  played  for  an  hour 
for  the  little  neighbour  hamlet  across  the 
river  Lesse. 

All  the  people  who  remained  in  Sainte 
Lesse  and  in  Alincourt  brought  out  their 
chairs  and  their  knitting  in  the  calm,  fragrant 
evening  air  and  remained  silent,  sadly  enrap 
tured  while  the  unseen  player  at  her  keyboard 
aloft  in  the  belfry  above  set  her  carillon 
music  adrift  under  the  summer  stars — golden 
harmonies  that  seemed  born  in  the  heavens 
from  which  they  floated;  clear,  exquisitely 
sweet  miracles  of  melody  filling  the  world  of 
darkness  with  magic  messages  of  hope. 

Those  widowed  or  childless  among  her  lis 
teners  for  miles  around  in  the  darkness  wept 
quiet  tears,  less  bitter  and  less  hopeless  for 

189 


BARBARIANS 


the  divine  promise  of  the  sky  music  which 
filled  the  night  as  subtly  as  the  scent  of 
flowers  saturates  the  dusk. 

Burley,  listening  down  by  the  corral,  leaned 
against  a  post,  one  powerful  hand  across  his 
eyes,  his  cap  clasped  in  the  other,  and  in  his 
heart  the  birth  of  things  ineffable. 

For  an  hour  the  carillon  played.  Then 
old  Bayard  struck  ten  times.  And  Burley 
thought  of  the  trenches  and  wondered 
whether  the  mellow  thunder  of  the  great  bell 
was  audible  out  there  that  night. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DJACK 

There  came  a  day  when  he  did  not  see 
Maryette  as  he  left  for  the  corral  in  the 
morning. 

Her  father,  very  stiff  with  rheumatism,  sat 
in  the  sun  outside  the  arched  entrance  to  the 
inn. 

"Xo,"  he  said,  "she  is  going  to  be  gone  all 
day  today.  She  has  set  and  wound  the  drum 
in  the  belfry  so  that  the  carillon  shall  play 
every  hour  while  she  is  absent." 

"Where  has  she  gone?"  inquired  Burley. 

"To  play  the  carillon  at  Nivelle." 

"Nivelle!"  he  exclaimed  sharply. 

"Oui,  monsieur.  The  Mayor  has  asked  for 
her.  She  is  to  play  for  an  hour  to  entertain 
the  wounded."  He  rested  his  withered  cheek 
on  his  hand  and  looked  out  through  the  win- 

191 


BARBARIANS 


dow  at  the  sunshine  with  aged  and  tragic 
eyes.  "It  is  very  little  to  do  for  our 
wounded,"  he  added  aloud  to  himself. 

Burley  had  sent  twenty  mules  to  Nivelle 
the  night  before,  and  had  heard  some  dis 
quieting  rumours  concerning  that  town. 

Now  he  walked  out  past  the  dusky,  arched 
passageway  into  the  sunny  street  and  con 
tinued  northward  under  the  trees  to  the  bar 
racks  of  the  Gendarmerie. 

"Bon  jour  I' ami  Gargantua!"  exclaimed  the 
fat,  jovial  brigadier  who  had  just  emerged 
with  boots  shining,  pipe-clay  very  apparent, 
and  all  rosy  from  a  fresh  shave. 

"Bong  joor,  mon  vieux  copain!"  replied 
Burley,  preoccupied  with  some  papers  he  was 
sorting.  "Be  good  enough  to  look  over  my 
papers." 

The  brigadier  took  them  and  examined 
them. 

"Are  they  en  regie?"  demanded  Burley. 

"Parfaiteme'nt,  mon  ami" 

"Will  they  take  me  as  far  as  Nivelle?" 

"Certainly.     But  your  mules  went  forward 

last  night  with  the  Remount " 

192 


. DJACK 

"I  know.  I  wish  to  inspect  them  again  be 
fore  the  veterinary  sees  them.  Telephone  to 
the  corral  for  a  saddle  mule." 

The  brigadier  went  inside  to  telephone  and 
Burley  started  for  the  corral  at  the  same 
time. 

His  cream-coloured,  wall-eyed  mule  was 
saddled  and  waiting  when  he  arrived;  he 
stuffed  his  papers  into  the  breast  of  his  tunic 
and  climbed  into  the  saddle. 

"Allongs!"  he  exclaimed.     "Hoop!" 

Half  way  to  Nivelle,  on  an  overgrown, 
bushy,  circuitous  path  which  was  the  only 
road  open  between  Nivelle  and  Sainte  Lesse, 
he  overtook  Maryette,  driving  her  donkey  and 
ancient  market  cart. 

"Carillonnette !"  he  called  out  joyously. 
"Maryette!  C'est  je!" 

The  girl,  astonished,  turned  her  head,  and 
he  spurred  forward  on  his  wall-eyed  mount, 
evincing  cordial  symptoms  of  pleasure  in  the 
encounter. 

"Wee,  wee!"  he  cried.  "Je  yoolay  veneer 
avec  voo!"  And  ere  the  girl  could  protest, 

193 


BARBARIANS 


he  had  dismounted,  turning  the  wall-eyed 
one's  nose  southward,  and  had  delivered  a 
resounding  whack  upon  the  rump  of  that 
temperamental  animal. 

"Allez!     Go  home!    Beat  it!"  he  cried. 

The  mule  lost  no  time  but  headed  for  the 
distant  corral  at  a  canter;  and  Burley,  grin 
ning  like  a  great,  splendid,  intelligent  dog 
who  has  just  done  something  to  be  proud  of, 
stepped  into  the  market  cart  and  seated  him 
self  beside  Maryette. 

"Who  told  you  where  I  am  going?"  she 
asked,  scarcely  knowing  whether  to  laugh  or 
let  loose  her  indignation. 

"Your  father,  Carillonnette." 

"Why  did  you  follow  me?" 

"I  had  nothing  else  to  do " 

"Is  that  the  reason?" 

"I  like  to  be  with  you " 

"Really,  monsieur!  And  you  think  it  was 
not  necessary  to  consult  my  wishes?" 

"Don't  you  like  to  be  with  me!"  he  asked, 
so  naively  that  the  girl  blushed  and  bit  her 
lip  and  shook  the  reins  without  replying. 

They  jogged  on  through  the  disused  by- 
194 


way,  the  filbert  bushes  brushing  axle  and 
traces;  but  presently  the  little  donkey  re 
lapsed  into  a  walk  again,  and  the  girl,  who 
had  counted  on  that  procedure  when  she 
started  from  Sainte  Lesse,  did  not  urge  him. 

"Also,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "I  have 
been  wondering  who  permits  you  to  address 
me  as  Carillonnette.  Also  as  Maryette.  You 
have  been,  heretofore,  quite  correct  in  assum 
ing  that  mademoiselle  is  the  proper  form  of 
address." 

"I  was  so  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said,  so  sim 
ply  that  she  flushed  again  and  offered  no  fur 
ther  comment. 

For  a  long  while  she  let  him  do  the  talk 
ing,  which  was  perfectly  agreeable  to  him. 
He  talked  on  every  subject  he  could  think  of, 
frankly  practicing  idioms  on  her,  pleased  with 
his  own  fluency  and  his  progress  in  French. 

After  a  while  she  said,  looking  around  at 
him  with  a  curiosity  quite  friendly: 

"Tell  me,  Monsieur  Burley,  why  did  you 
desire  to  come  with  me  today?" 

He  started  to  reply,  but  checked  himself, 
looking  into  the  dark  blue  and  engaging  eyes. 

195 


BARBARIANS 


After  a  moment  the  engaging  eyes  became 
brilliantly  serious. 

"Tell  me,"  she  repeated.  "Is  it  because 
there  were  some  rumours  last  evening  con 
cerning  Nivelle?" 

"Wee!" 

"Oh,"  she  nodded,  thoughtfully. 

After  driving  for  a  little  while  in  silence 
she  looked  around  at  him  with  an  expression 
on  her  face  which  altered  it  exquisitely. 

"Thank  you,  my  friend,"  she  murmured. 
.  .  .  "And  if  you  wish  to  call  me  Carillonnette 
— do  so." 

"I  do  want  to.  And  my  name's  Jack.  .  .  . 
If  you  don't  mind." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  donkey's  ears. 

"Djack,"  she  repeated,  musingly.  "Jacques 
— Djack — it's  the  same,  isn't  it — Djack f 

He  turned  red  and  she  laughed  at  him,  no 
longer  afraid. 

"Listen,  my  friend,"  she  said,  "it  is  ires 
beau — what  have  you  done." 

"Vooz  etes  tray  belle " 

"Non!  Please  stop!  It  is  not  a  question 
of  me » 

196 


DJACK 


"Vooz  etes  tray  chick- 


"Stop,  Djack!  That  is  not  good  manners! 
No!  I  was  merely  saying  that — you  have 
done  something  very  nice.  Which  is  quite 
true.  You  heard  rumours  that  Nivelle  had 
become  unsafe.  People  whispered  last  evening 
— something  about  the  danger  of  a  salient 
being  cut  at  its  base.  ...  I  heard  the  gos 
sip  in  the  street.  Was  that  why  you  came 
after  me?" 

"Wee." 

"Thank  you,  Djack." 

She  leaned  a  trifle  forward  in  the  cart,  her 
dimpled  elbows  on  her  knees,  the  reins  sag 
ging. 

Blue  and  rosy  jays  flew  up  before  them, 
fluttering  away  through  the  thickets;  a  bull 
finch  whistled  sweetly  from  a  thorn  bush, 
watching  them  pass  under  him,  unafraid. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  half  to  herself,  "I  had 
to  come.  Who  could  refuse  our  wounded? 
There  is  no  bell-master  in  our  department; 
and  only  one  bell-mistress.  ...  To  find  any 
one  else  to  play  the  Nivelle  carillon  one  would 
have  to  pierce  the  barbarians'  lines  and  search 
14  197 


BARBARIANS 


the  ruins  of  Flanders  for  a  Beiaardier — a 
Klokkenist,  as  they  call  a  carillonneur  in  the 
low  countries.  .  .  .  But  the  Mayor  asked  it, 
and  our  wounded  are  waiting.  You  under 
stand,  mon  ami  Djack,  I  had  to  come." 

He  nodded. 

She  added,  naively: 

"God  watches  over  our  trenches.  We  shall 
be  quite  safe  in  Nivelle." 

A  dull  boom  shook  the  sunlit  air.  Even  in 
the  cart  they  could  feel  the  vibration. 

An  hour  later,  everywhere  ahead  of  them, 
a  vast,  confused  thundering  was  steadily  in 
creasing,  deepening  with  every  ominous  re 
verberation. 

Where  two  sandy  wood  roads  crossed,  a 
mounted  gendarme  halted  them  and  examined 
their  papers. 

"My  poor  child,"  he  said  to  the  girl,  shak 
ing  his  head,  "the  wounded  at  Nivelle  were 
taken  away  during  the  night.  They  are 
fighting  there  now  in  the  streets." 

"In  Nivelle  streets!"  faltered  the  girl. 

"Oui,  mademoiselle.  Of  the  carillon  little 
remains.  The  Boches  have  been  shelling  it 

198 


DJACK 

since  daylight.  Turn  again.  And  it  is  better 
that  you  turn  quickly,  because  it  is  not  known 
to  us  what  is  going  on  in  that  wooded  district 
over  there.  For  if  they  get  a  foothold  in 
Nivelle  on  this  drive  they  might  cross  this 
road  before  evening." 

The  girl  sat  grief-stricken  and  silent  in  the 
cart,  staring  at  the  woods  ahead  where  the 
road  ran  through  taller  saplings  and  where, 
here  and  there,  mature  trees  towered. 

All  around  them  now  the  increasing  thun 
der  rolled  and  echoed  and  shook  the  ground 
under  them.  Half  a  dozen  gendarmes  came 
up  at  a  gallop.  Their  officer  drew  bridle, 
seized  the  donkey's  head  and  turned  animal 
and  cart  southward. 

"Go  back,"  he  said  briefly,  recognizing  Bur- 
ley  and  returning  hie  salute.  "You  may  have 
to  take  your  mules  out  of  Sainte  Lesse!"  he 
added,  as  he  wheeled  his  horse.  "We  are 
getting  into  trouble  out  here,  nom  de  Dieu!" 

Maryette's  head  hung  as  the  donkey  jogged 
along,  trotting  willingly  because  his  nose  was 
now  pointed  homeward. 

The  girl  drove  with  loose  and  careless  rein 
199 


BARBARIANS 


and  in  silence;  and  beside  her  sat  Burley,  his 
troubled  gaze  always  reverting  to  the  de 
spondent  form  beside  him. 

"Too  bad,  little  girl,"  he  said.  "But  an 
other  time  our  wounded  shall  listen  to  your 
carillon." 

"Never  at  Nivelle.  .  .  .  The  belfry  is  be 
ing  destroyed.  .  .  .  The  sweetest  carillon  in 
France — the  oldest,  the  most  beautiful.  .  .  . 
Fifty-six  bells,  Djack — a  wondrous  wilderness 
of  bells  rising  above  where  one  stands  in  the 
belfry,  tier  on  tier,  tier  on  tier,  until  one's 
gaze  is  lost  amid  the  heavenly  company  aloft. 
.  .  .  Oh,  Djack!  And  the  great  bell,  Clovis! 
He  hangs  there — through  hundreds  of  years 
he  has  spoken  with  his  great  voice  of  God!— 
so  that  they  heard  him  for  miles  and  miles 
across  the  land " 

"Maryette — I  am  so  sorry  for  you— 

"Oh!  Oh!  My  carillon  of  Nivelle!  My 
beloved  carillon!" 

"Maryette,  dear!  My  little  Carillon- 
nette " 

"No — my  heart  is  broken " 


"Vooz  ates  tray,  tray  bell( 

200 


tr. 


DJACK 

The  sudden  crashing  of  heavy  feet  in  the 
bushes  checked  him;  but  it  was  too  late  to 
heed  it  now — too  late  to  reach  for  his  holster. 
For  all  around  them  swarmed  the  men  in  sea- 
grey,  jerking  the  donkey  off  his  forelegs, 
blocking  the  little  wheels  with  great,  dirty 
fists,  seizing  Burley  from  behind  and  drag 
ging  him  violently  out  of  the  cart. 

A  near-sighted  officer,  thin  and  spare  as 
Death,  was  talking  in  a  loud,  nasal  voice  and 
squinting  at  Burley  where  he  still  struggled, 
red  and  exasperated,  in  the  clutches  of  four 
soldiers : 

"Also!  That  is  no  uniform  known  to  us 
or  to  any  nation  at  war  with  us.  That  is  not 
regulation  in  England — that  collar  insignia. 
This  is  a  case  of  a  f ranc-tireur !  Now,  then, 
you  there  in  your  costume  de  f antasie !  What 
have  you  to  say,  eh?" 

There  was  a  silence;  Burley  ceased  strug 
gling. 

"Answer,  do  you  hear?    What  are  you?" 

"American." 

"Pig-dog!"  shouted  the  gaunt  officer.  "So 
you  are  one  of  those  Yankee  muleteers  in 

201 


your  uniform,  and  armed!  It  is  sufficient  that 
you  are  American.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
America  this  war  would  be  ended!  But  it  is 
not  enough,  apparently,  that  you  come  here 
with  munitions  and  food,  that  you  insult  us 
at  sea,  that  you  lie  about  us  and  slander  us 
and  send  your  shells  and  cartridges  to  Eng 
land  to  slay  our  people!  No!  Also  you  must 
come  to  insult  us  in  your  clown's  uniform  and 
with  your  pistol — "  The  man  began  to  choke 
with  fury,  unable  to  continue,  except  by 
gesture. 

But  the  jerky  gestures  were  terribly  sig 
nificant:  soldiers  were  already  pushing  Bur- 
ley  across  the  road  toward  a  great  oak  tree; 
six  men  fell  out  and  lined  up. 

"M-my  Government—  stammered  the 
young  fellow — but  was  given  no  opportunity 
to  speak.  Very  white,  the  chill  sweat  stand 
ing  on  his  forehead  and  under  his  eyes,  he 
stood  against  the  oak,  lips  compressed,  grey 
eyes  watching  what  was  happening  to  him. 

Suddenly  he  understood  it  was  all  over. 

"Djack!" 

He  turned  his  gaze  toward  Maryette,  where 

202 


DJACK 

she  struggled  toward  him,  held  by  two  sol 
diers. 

"Maryette — Carillonnette — "  His  voice  sud 
denly  became  steady,  perfectly  clear.  "Je 
vous  aime,  Carillonnette." 

"Oh,  Djack!     Djack!"   she  cried  in  terror. 

He  heard  the  orders;  was  aware  of  the 
levelled  rifles;  but  his  reckless  greyish  eyes 
were  now  fixed  on  her,  and  he  began  to  laugh 
almost  mischievously. 

"Vooz  etes  tray  belle,"  he  said,  " — tray, 
tray  chick " 

"Djack!" 

But  the  clang  of  the  volley  precluded  any 
response  from  him  except  the  half  tender, 
half  reckless  smile  that  remained  on  his  youth 
ful  face  where  he  lay  looking  up  at  the  sky 
with  pleasant,  sightless  eyes,  and  a  sunbeam 
touching  the  metal  mule  on  his  blood-wet 
collar. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

FRIENDSHIP 

She  tried  once  more  to  lift  the  big,  warm, 
flexible  body,  exerting  all  her  slender  strength. 
It  was  useless.  It  was  like  attempting  to  lift 
the  earth.  The  weight  of  the  body  fright 
ened  her. 

Again  she  sank  down  among  the  ferns 
under  the  great  oak  tree;  once  more  she  took 
his  blood-smeared  head  on  her  lap,  smooth 
ing  the  bright,  wet  hair;  and  her  tears  fell 
slowly  upon  his  upturned  face. 

"My  friend,"  she  stammered,  " — my  kind, 
droll  friend.  .  .  .  The  first  friend  I  ever 
had " 

The  gun  thunder  beyond  Nivelle  had  ceased ; 
an  intense  stillness  reigned  in  the  forest;  only 
a  leaf  moved  here  and  there  on  the  aspens. 

A   few  forest  flies  whirled   about  her,   but 

204 


FRIENDSHIP 


as  yet  no  ominous  green  flies  came — none  of 
those  jewelled  harbingers  of  death  which  ap 
pear  with  horrible  promptness  and  as  though 
by  magic  from  nowhere  when  anything  dies 
in  the  open  world. 

Her  donkey,  still  attached  to  the  little  gaily 
painted  market  cart,  had  wandered  on  up  the 
sandy  lane,  feeding  at  random  along  the  fern- 
bordered  thickets  which  walled  in  the  Nivelle 
byroad  on  either  side. 

Presently  her  ear  caught  a  slight  sound; 
something  stirred  somewhere  in  the  woods 
behind  her.  After  an  interval  of  terrible 
stillness  there  came  a  distant  crashing  of 
footsteps  among  dead  leaves  and  underbrush. 

Horror  of  the  Hun  still  possessed  her;  the 
victim  of  Prussian  ferocity  still  lay  across 
her  knees.  She  dared  not  take  the  chance 
that  friendly  ears  might  hear  her  call  for  aid 
— dared  not  raise  her  voice  in  appeal  lest  she 
awaken  something  monstrous,  unclean,  incon 
ceivable — the  unseen  thing  which  she  could 
hear  at  intervals  prowling  there  among  dead 
leaves  in  the  demi-light  of  the  woods. 

Suddenly  her  heart  leaped  with  fright;   a 

205 


BARBARIANS 


man  stepped  cautiously  out  of  the  woods  into 
the  road;  another,  dressed  in  leather,  with 
dry  blood  caked  on  his  face,  followed. 

The  first  comer,  a  French  gendarme,  had 
already  caught  sight  of  the  donkey  and  mar 
ket  cart;  had  turned  around  instinctively  to 
look  for  their  owner.  Now  he  discovered  her 
seated  there  among  the  ferns  under  the  oak 
tree. 

"In  the  name  of  God,"  he  growled,  "what's 
that  child  doing  there!" 

The  airman  in  leather  followed  him  across 
the  road  to  the  oak;  the  girl  looked  up  at 
them  out  of  dark,  tear-marred  eyes  that 
seemed  dazed. 

"Well,  little  one!"  rumbled  the  big,  red- 
faced  gendarme.  "What's  your  name? — you 
who  sit  here  all  alone  at  the  wood's  edge  with 
a  dead  man  across  your  knees?" 

She  made  an  effort  to  find  her  voice — to 
control  it. 

"I  am  Maryette  Courtray,  bell-mistress  of 
Sainte  Lesse,"  she  answered,  trembling. 

"And — this  young  man?" 

"They  shot  him — the  Prussians,  monsieur." 

£06 


"My  poor  child!    Was  he  your  lover,  then!'* 

Her  tear-filled  eyes  widened: 

"Oh,  no,"  she  said  naively;  "it  is  sadder 
than  that.  He  was  my  friend." 

The  big  gendarme  scratched  his  chin;  then, 
with  an  odd  glance  at  the  young  airman  who 
stood  beside  him: 

"To  lose  a  friend  is  indeed  sadder  than  to 
lose  a  lover.  What  was  your  friend's  name, 
little  one?" 

She  pressed  her  hand  to  her  forehead  in 
an  effort  to  search  among  her  partly  para 
lyzed  thoughts: 

"Djack.  .  .  .  That  is  his  name.  ...  He  was 
the  first  real  friend  I  ever  had." 

The  airman  said: 

"He  is  one  of  my  countrymen — an  Ameri 
can  muleteer,  Jack  Burley — in  charge  at 
Sainte  Lesse." 

At  the  sound  of  the  young  man's  name  pro 
nounced  in  English  the  girl  began  to  cry.  The 
big  gendarme  bent  over  and  patted  her  cheek. 

"Allans"  he  growled;  "courage!  little  mis 
tress  of  the  bells!  Let  us  place  your  friend 

207 


in  your  pretty  market  cart  and  leave  this 
accursed  place,  in  God's  name!" 

He  straightened  up  and  looked  over  his 
shoulder. 

"For  the  Boches  are  in  Nivelle  woods,"  he 
added,  with  an  oath,  "and  we  ought  to  be  on 
our  way  to  Sainte  Lesse,  if  we  are  to  arrive 
there  at  all.  Allans,  comrade,  take  him  by 
the  head!" 

So  the  wounded  airman  bent  over  and  took 
the  body  by  the  shoulders;  the  gendarme 
lifted  the  feet;  the  little  bell-mistress  fol 
lowed,  holding  to  one  of  the  sagging  arms,  as 
though  fearing  that  these  strangers  might 
take  away  from  her  this  dead  man  who  had 
been  so  much  more  to  her  than  a  mere  lover. 

When  they  laid  him  in  the  market  cart  she 
released  his  sleeve  with  a  sob.  Still  crying, 
she  climbed  to  the  seat  of  the  cart  and  gath 
ered  up  the  reins.  Behind  her,  flat  on  the 
floor  of  the  cart,  the  airman  and  the  gendarme 
had  seated  themselves,  with  the  young  man's 
body  between  them.  They  were  opening  his 
tunic  and  shirt  now  and  were  whispering  to- 

208 


FRIENDSHIP 


gether,  and  wiping  away  blood  from  the  naked 
shoulders  and  chest. 

"He's  still  warm,  but  there's  no  pulse," 
whispered  the  airman.  "He's  dead  enough,  I 
guess,  but  I'd  rather  hear  a  surgeon  say  so." 

The  gendarme  rose,  stepped  across  to  the 
seat,  took  the  reins  gently  from  the  girl. 

"Weep  peacefully,  little  one,"  he  said;  "it 
does  one  good.  Tears  are  the  tisane  which 
strengthens  the  soul." 

"Ye-es.  .  .  .  But  I  am  remembering  that — 
that  I  was  not  very  k-kind  to  him,"  she 
sobbed.  "It  hurts — here — "  She  pressed  a 
slim  hand  over  her  breast. 

"Allons!  Friends  quarrel.  God  under 
stands.  Thy  friend  back  there — he  also  un 
derstands  now." 

"Oh,  I  hope  he  does!  .  .  .  He  spoke  to  me 
so  tenderly — yet  so  gaily.  He  was  even 
laughing  at  me  when  they  shot  him.  He  was 
so  kind — and  droll — "  She  sobbed  anew, 
clasping  her  hands  and  pressing  them  against 
her  quivering  mouth  to  check  her  grief. 

"Was  it  an  execution,  then!"  demanded  the 
gendarme  in  his  growling  voice. 

209 


BARBARIANS 


"They  said  he  must  be  a  franc-tireur  to 
wear  such  a  uniform " 

"Ah,  the  scoundrels!  Ah,  the  assassins! 
And  so  they  murdered  him  there  under  the 
tree?" 

"Ah,  God!  Yes!  I  seem  to  see  him  stand 
ing  there  now — his  grey,  kind  eyes — and  no 
thought  of  fear — just  a  droll  smile — the  way 
he  had  with  me — "  whispered  the  girl,  "the 
way — his  way — with  me " 

"Child,"  said  the  gendarme,  pityingly,  "it 
was  love!" 

But  she  shook  her  head,  surprised,  the  tears 
still  running  down  her  tanned  cheeks: 

"Monsieur,  it  was  more  serious  than  love; 
it  was  friendship." 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE   AVIATOB 

Where  the  Fonianes  highroad  crosses  the 
"byroad  to  Sainte  Lesse  they  were  halted  by 
a  dusty  column  moving  rapidly  west — four 
hundred  American  mules  convoyed  by  gen 
darmerie  and  remount  troopers. 

The  sweating  riders,  passing  at  a  canter, 
shouted  from  their  saddles  to  the  big  gen 
darme  in  the  market  cart  that  neither  Nivelle 
nor  Sainte  Lesse  were  to  be  defended  at  pres 
ent,  and  that  all  stragglers  were  being  di 
rected  to  Fontanes  and  Le  Marronnier.  Mules 
and  drivers  denied  at  a  swinging  trot,  envel 
oped  in  torrents  of  white  dust;  behind  them 
rode  a  peloton  of  the  remount,  lashing  recal 
citrant  animals  forward;  and  in  the  rear  of 
these  rolled  automobile  ambulances,  red 
crosses  aglow  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 

211 


BARBARIANS 


The  driver  of  the  last  ambulance  seemed 
to  be  ill;  his  head  lay  on  the  shoulder  of  a 
Sister  of  Charity  who  had  taken  the  steering 
wheel.  . 

The  gendarme  beside  Maryette  signalled 
her  to  stop;  then  he  got  out  of  the  market 
cart  and,  lifting  the  body  of  the  American 
muleteer  in  his  powerful  arms,  strode  across 
the  road.  The  airman  leaped  from  the  mar 
ket  cart  and  followed  him. 

Between  them  they  drew  out  a  stretcher, 
laid  the  muleteer  on  it,  and  shoved  it  back 
into  the  vehicle. 

There  was  a  brief  consultation,  then  they 
both  came  back  to  Maryette,  who,  rigid  in  her 
seat  and  very  pale,  sat  watching  the  pro 
cedure  in  silence. 

The  gendarme  said: 

"I  go  to  Fontanes.  There's  a  dressing  sta 
tion  on  the  road.  It  appears  that  your  young 
man's  heart  hasn't  quite  stopped  yet— 

The  girl  rose  excitedly  to  her  feet,  but  the 
gendarme  gently  forced  her  back  into  her  seat 
and  laid  the  reins  in  her  hands.  To  the  air 
man  he  growled: 

212 


THE   AVIATOR 


"I  did  not  tell  this  poor  child  to  hope;  I 
merely  informed  her  that  her  friend  yonder 
is  still  breathing.  But  he's  as  full  of  holes 
as  a  pepper  pot!"  He  frowned  at  Maryette: 
" 'Allans!  My  comrade  here  goes  to  Sainte 
Lesse.  Drive  him  there  now,  in  God's  name, 
before  the  Uhlans  come  clattering  on  your 
heels !" 

He  turned,  strode  away  to  the  ambulance 
once  more,  climbed  in,  and  placed  one  big  arm 
around  the  sick  driver's  shoulder,  drawing  the 
man's  head  down  against  his  breast. 

"Bonne  chance!"  he  called  back  to  the  air 
man,  who  had  now  seated  himself  beside 
Maryette.  "Explain  to  our  little  bell-mistress 
that  we're  taking  her  friend  to  a  place  where 
they  fool  Death  every  day — where  to  cheat 
the  grave  is  a  flourishing  business!  Good 
bye!  Courage!  En  route,  brave  Sister  of  the 
World !" 

The  Sister  of  Charity  turned  and  smiled  at 
Maryette,  made  her  a  friendly  gesture,  threw 
in  the  clutch,  and,  twisting  the  steering  wheel 
with  both  sun-browned  hands,  guided  the  ma- 

15  213 


BARBARIANS 


chine  out  onto  the  road  and  sped  away  swiftly 
after  the  cloud  of  receding  dust. 

"Drive  on,  mademoiselle,"  said  the  airman 
quietly. 

In  his  accent  there  was  something  poign 
antly  familiar  to  Maryette,  and  she  turned 
with  a  start  and  looked  at  him  out  of  her 
dark  blue,  tear-marred  eyes. 

"Are  you  also  American?"  she  asked. 

"Gunner  observer,  American  air  squadron, 
mademoiselle." 

"An  airman?" 

"Yes.  My  machine  was  shot  down  in  Ni- 
velle  woods  an  hour  ago." 

After  a  silence,  as  they  jogged  along  be 
tween  the  hazel  thickets  in  the  warm  after 
noon  sunshine: 

"Were  you  acquainted  with  my  friend?" 
she  asked  wistfully. 

"With  Jack  Burley?  A  little.  I  knew  him 
in  Calais." 

The  tears  welled  up  into  her  eyes: 

"Could  you  tell  me  about  him?  .  .  .  He  was 
my  first  friend.  ...  I  did  not  understand  him 
in  the  beginning,  monsieur.  Among  children 

214 


THE   AVIATOR 


it  is  different;  I  had  known  boys — as  one 
knows  them  at  school.  But  a  man,  never — 
and,  indeed,  I  had  not  thought  I  had  grown 
up  until — he  came — Djack — to  live  at  our  inn. 
.  .  .  The  White  Doe  at  Sainte  Lesse,  mon 
sieur.  My  father  keeps  it." 

"I  see,"  nodded  the  airman  gravely. 

"Yes — that  is  the  way.  He  came — my  first 
friend,  Djack — with  mules  from  America,  mon 
sieur — one  thousand  mules.  And  God  knows 
Sainte  Lesse  had  never  seen  the  like!  As  for 
me — I  thought  I  was  a  child  still — until — do 
you  understand,  monsieur?" 

"Yes,  Maryette." 

"Yes,  that  is  how  I  found  I  was  grown  up. 
He  was  a  man,  not  a  boy — that  is  how  I  found 
out.  So  he  became  my  first  friend.  He  was 
quite  droll,  and  very  big  and  kind — and  timid 
— following  me  about — oh,  it  was  quite  droll 
for  both  of  us,  because  at  first  I  was  afraid, 
but  pretended  not  to  be." 

She  smiled,  then  suddenly  her  eyes  filled 
with  the  tragedy  again,  and  she  began  to 
whimper  softly  to  herself,  with  a  faint  sound 
like  a  hovering  pigeon. 

215 


BARBARIANS 


"Tell  me  about  him,"  said  the  airman. 

She  staunched  her  tears  with  the  edge  of 
her  apron. 

"It  was  that  way  with  us,"  she  managed  to 
say.  "I  was  enchanted  and  a  little  frightened 
—it  being  my  first  friendship.  He  was  so  big, 
so  droll,  so  kind.  .  .  .  We  were  on  our  way 
to  Nivelle  this  morning.  I  was  to  play  the 
carillon — being  mistress  of  the  bells  at  Sainte 
Lesse — and  there  was  nobody  else  to  play  the 
bells  at  Nivelle;  and  the  wounded  desired  to 
hear  the  carillon." 

"Yes." 

"So  Djack  came  after  me — hearing  rumours 
of  Prussians  in  that  direction.  They  were 
true — oh,  God! — and  the  Prussians  caught  us 
there  where  you  found  us." 

She  bowed  her  supple  figure  double  on  the 
seat,  covering  her  face  with  her  sun-browned 
hands. 

The  airman  drove  on,  whistling  "La  Bra- 
bangonne"  under  his  breath,  and  deep  in 
thought.  From  time  to  time  he  glanced  at 
the  curved  figure  beside  him;  but  he  said  no 
more  for  a  long  time. 

216 


THE   AVIATOR 


Toward  sunset  they  drove  into  the  Sainte 
Lesse  highway. 

He  spoke  abruptly,  dryly: 

"Anybody  can  weep  for  a  friend.  But  few 
avenge  their  dead." 

She  looked  up,  bewildered. 

They  drove  under  the  old  Sainte  Lesse  gate 
as  he  spoke.  The  sunlight  lay  pink  across  the 
walls  and  tipped  the  turret  of  the  watch  tower 
with  fire. 

The  town  seemed  very  still;  nothing  was 
to  be  seen  on  the  long  main  street  except  here 
and  there  a  Spahi  horseman  en  vidette,  and 
the  clock-tower  pigeons  circling  in  their  even 
ing  flight. 

The  girl,  Maryette,  looked  dumbly  into  the 
fading  daylight  when  the  cart  stopped  before 
her  door.  The  airman  took  her  gently  by 
the  arm,  and  that  awakened  her.  As  though 
stiffened  by  fatigue  she  rose  and  climbed  to 
the  sidewalk.  He  took  her  unresisting  arm 
and  led  her  through  the  tunnelled  wall  and 
into  the  White  Doe  Inn. 

"Get  me  some  supper,"  he  said.  "It  will 
take  your  mind  off  your  troubles." 

217 


"Yes." 

"Bread,  wine,  and  some  meat,  if  you  have 
any.  I'll  be  back  in  a  few  moments." 

He  left  her  at  the  inn  door  and  went  out 
into  the  street,  whistling  "La  BrabanQonne." 
A  cavalryman  directed  him  to  the  military 
telephone  installed  in  the  house  of  the  notary 
across  the  street. 

His  papers  identified  him;  the  operator 
gave  him  his  connection;  they  switched  him 
to  the  headquarters  of  his  air  squadron,  where 
he  made  his  report. 

"Shot  down?"  came  the  sharp  exclamation 
over  the  wire. 

"Yes,  sir,  about  eleven-thirty  this  morning 
on  the  north  edge  of  Nivelle  forest." 

"The  machine?" 

"Done  for,  sir.     They  have  it." 

"You?" 

"A  scratch — nothing.    I  had  to  run." 

"What  else  have  you  to  report?" 

The  airman  made  his  brief  report  in  an 
unemotional  voice.  Ending  it,  he  asked  per 
mission  to  volunteer  for  a  special  service. 
And  for  ten  minutes  the  officer  at  the  other 

218 


THE   AVIATOR 


end  of  the  wire  listened  to  a  proposition  which 
interested  him  intensely. 

"When  the  airman  finished,  the  officer  said: 

"Wait  till  I  relay  this  matter." 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  airman  waited. 
Finally  the  operator  half  turned  on  his  camp 
chair  and  made  a  gesture  for  him  to  resume 
the  receiver. 

"If  you  choose  to  volunteer  for  such  service," 
came  the  message,  "it  is  approved.  But  un 
derstand — you  are  not  ordered  on  such  duty." 

"I  understand.     I  volunteer." 

"Very  well.  Munitions  go  to  you  immedi 
ately  by  automobile.  It  is  expected  that  the 
wind  will  blow  from  the  west  by  morning. 
By  morning,  also,  all  reserves  will  arrive  in 
the  west  salient.  What  is  to  be  your  signal?" 

"The  carillon  from  the  Nivelle  belfry." 

"What  tune?" 

"  'La  Brabangonne.'  If  not  that,  then  the 
tocsin  on  the  great  bell,  Clovis." 


In  the  tiny  cafe  the  crippled  innkeeper  sat, 
his  aged,  wistful  eyes  watching  three  leather- 

219 


BARBARIANS 


clad  airmen  who  had  been  whispering  together 
around  a  table  in  the  corner  all  the  after 
noon. 

iliey  nodded  in  silence  to  the  new  arrival, 
and  he  joined  them. 

Daylight  faded  in  the  room;  the  drum  in 
the  Sainte  Lesse  belfry,  set  to  play  before 
the  hour  sounded,  began  to  turn  aloft;  the 
silvery  notes  of  the  carillon  seemed  to  shower 
down  from  the  sky,  filling  the  twilight  world 
with  angelic  melody.  Then,  in  resonant 
beauty,  the  great  bell,  Bayard,  measured  the 
hour. 

The  airman  who  had  just  arrived  went  to  a 
sink,  washed  the  caked  blood  from  his  face 
and  tied  it  up  with  a  first-aid  bandage.  Then 
he  began  to  pace  the  cafe,  his  head  bent  in 
thought,  his  nervous  hands  clasped  behind 
him. 

The  room  was  dusky  when  he  came  back 
to  the  table  where  his  three  comrades  still 
sat  consulting  in  whispers.  The  old  inn 
keeper  had  fallen  asleep  on  his  chair  by  the 
window.  There  was  no  light  in  the  room  ex 
cept  what  came  from  stars. 

220 


THE   AVIATOR 


"Well,"  said  one  of  the  airmen  in  a  care 
fully  modulated  voice,  "what  are  you  going 
to  do,  Jim!" 

"Stay." 

"What's  the  idea?" 

The  bandaged  airman  rested  both  hands  on 
the  stained  table-top: 

"We  quit  Nivelle  tonight,  but  our  reserves 
are  already  coming  up  and  we  are  to  retake 
Nivelle  tomorrow.  You  flew  over  the  town 
this  morning,  didn't  you?" 

All  three  said  yes. 

"You  took  photographs?" 

"Certainly." 

"Then  you  know  that  our  trenches  pass 
under  the  bell-tower?" 

"Yes." 

"Very  well.  The  wind  is  north.  When  the 
Boches  enter  our  trenches  they'll  try  to  gas 
our  salient  while  the  wind  holds.  But  west 
winds  are  predicted  after  sunrise  tomorrow. 
I'm  going  to  get  into  the  Nivelle  belfry  to 
night  with  a  sack  of  bombs.  I'm  going  to  try 
to  explode  their  gas  cylinders  if  I  can.  The 

221 


BARBARIANS 


tocsin  is  the  signal  for  our  people  in  the 
salient." 

"You're  crazy!"  remarked  one  of  the  air 
men. 

"No;  I'll  bluff  it  out.  I'm  to  have  a  Boche 
uniform  in  a  few  moments." 

"You  are  crazy!  You  know  what  they'll  do 
to  you,  don't  you,  Jimf 

The  bandaged  airman  laughed,  but  in  his 
eyes  there  was  an  odd  flicker  like  a  tiny  flame. 
He  whistled  "La  Brabangonne"  and  glanced 
coolly  about  the  room. 

One  of  the  airmen  said  to  another  in  a 
whisper : 

"There  you  are.  Ever  since  they  got  his 
brother  he's  been  figuring  on  landing  a  whole 
bunch  of  Huns  at  one  clip.  This  is  going  to 
finish  him,  this  business." 

Another  said: 

"Don't  try  anything  like  that,  Jim " 

"Sure,  I'll  try  it,"  interrupted  the  bandaged 
airman  pleasantly.  "When  are  you  fellows 
going?" 

"Now." 

222 


THE   AVIATOR 


"All  right.  Take  my  report.  Wait  a  mo 
ment— 

"For  God's  sake,  Jim,  act  sensibly!" 

The  bandaged  airman  laughed,  fished  out 
from  his  clothing  somewhere  a  note  book  and 
pencil.  One  of  the  others  turned  an  electric 
torch  on  the  table;  the  bandaged  man  made 
a  little  sketch,  wrote  a  few  lines  which  the 
others  studied. 

"You  can  get  that  note  to  headquarters  in 
half  an  hour,  can't  you,  Ed?" 

"Yes." 

"All  right.    I'll  wait  here  for  my  answer." 

"You  know  what  risk  you  run,  Jim?" 
pleaded  the  youngest  of  the  airmen. 

"Oh,  certainly.  All  right,  then.  You'd  bet 
ter  be  on  your  way." 

After  they  had  left  the  room,  the  bandaged 
airman  sat  beside  the  table,  thinking  hard  in 
the  darkness. 

Presently  from  somewhere  across  the  dusky 
river  meadow  the  sudden  roar  of  an  airplane 
engine  shattered  the  silence;  then  another 
whirring  racket  broke  out;  then  another. 

He  heard  presently  the  loud  rattle  of  his 

223 


comrades'  machines  from  high  above  him  in 
the  star-set  sky;  he  heard  the  stertorous 
breathing  of  the  old  innkeeper ;  he  heard  again 
the  crystalline  bell-notes  break  out  aloft,  lin 
ger  in  linked  harmonies,  die  away;  he  heard 
Bayard's  mellow  thunder  proclaim  the  hour 
once  more. 

There  was  a  watch  on  his  wrist,  but  it  had 
been  put  out  of  business  when  his  machine 
fell  in  Nivelle  woods.  Glancing  at  it  mechan 
ically  he  saw  the  phosphorescent  dial  glimmer 
faintly  under  shattered  hands  that  remained 
fixed. 

An  hour  later  Bayard  shook  the  starlit 
silence  ten  times. 

As  the  last  stroke  boomed  majestically 
through  the  darkness  an  automobile  came  rac 
ing  into  the  long,  unlighted  street  of  Sainte 
Lesse  and  halted,  panting,  at  the  door  of  the 
White  Doe  Inn. 

The  airman  went  out  to  the  doorstep,  sa 
luted  the  staff  captain  who  leaned  forward 
from  the  tonneau  and  turned  a  flash  on  him. 
Then,  satisfied,  the  officer  lifted  a  bundle  from 

224 


THE   AVIATOR 


the  tonneau  and  handed  it  to  the  airman.  A 
letter  was  pinned  to  the  bundle. 

After  the  airman  had  read  the  letter  twice, 
the  staff  captain  leaned  a  trifle  nearer. 

"Do  you  think  it  can  be  done?"  he  de 
manded  bluntly. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Very  well.    Here  are  your  munitions,  too." 

He  lifted  from  the  tonneau  a  bomb-throw 
er's  sack,  heavy  and  full.  The  airman  took 
it  and  saluted. 

"It  means  the  cross,"  said  the  staff  captain 
dryly.  And  to  the  engineer  chauffeur:  "Let 
loose !" 


CHAPTER   XIX 

HONOUE 

For  a  moment  the  airman  stood  watching 
and  listening.  The  whir  of  the  receding  car 
died  away  in  the  night. 

Then,  carrying  his  bundle  and  his  bomber's 
sack,  heavy  with  latent  death,  he  went  into 
the  inn  and  through  the  cafe,  where  the  sleep 
ing  innkeeper  sat  huddled,  and  felt  his  way 
cautiously  to  the  little  dining  room. 

The  wooden  shutters  had  been  closed;  a 
candle  flared  on  the  table.  Maryette  sat  be 
side  it,  her  arms  extended  across  the  cloth, 
her  head  bowed. 

He  thought  she  was  asleep,  but  she  looked 
up  as  his  footfall  sounded  on  the  bare  floor. 

She  was  so  pale  that  he  asked  her  if  she 
felt  ill. 

226 


HONOUR 


"No.  I  have  been  thinking  of  my  friend," 
she  replied  in  a  low  but  steady  voice. 

"He  may  live,"  said  the  airman.  "He  was 
alive  when  we  lifted  him." 

The  girl  nodded  as  though  preoccupied — 
an  odd,  mysterious  little  nod,  as  though  as 
senting  to  some  intimate,  inward  suggestion 
of  her  own  mind. 

Then  she  raised  her  dark  blue  eyes  to  the 
airman,  who  was  still  standing  beside  the 
table,  the  sack  of  bombs  hanging  from  his 
left  shoulder,  the  bundle  under  his  arm. 

"Here  is  supper,"  she  said,  looking  around 
absently  at  the  few  dishes.  Then  she  folded 
her  hands  on  the  table's  edge  and  sat  silent, 
as  though  lost  in  thought. 

He  placed  the  sack  carefully  on  a  cane  chair 
beside  him,  the  bundle  on  the  floor,  and  seated 
himself  opposite  her.  There  was  bread,  meat, 
and  a  bottle  of  red  wine.  The  girl  declined 
to  eat,  saying  that  she  had  supped. 

"Your  friend  Jack,"  he  said  again,  after  a 
long  silence,  " — I  have  seen  worse  cases.  He 
may  live,  mademoiselle." 

"That,"  she  said  musingly,  in  her  low,  even 

227 


BARBARIANS 


voice,  "is  now  in  God's  hands."  She  gave 
the  slightest  movement  to  her  shoulders,  as 
though  easing  them  a  trifle  of  that  burden. 
"I  have  prayed.  You  saw  me  weep.  That  is 
ended — so  much.  Now — "  and  across  her  eyes 
shot  a  blue  gleam,  " — now  I  am  ready  to  lis 
ten  to  you!  In  the  cart — out  on  the  road 
there — you  said  that  anybody  can  weep,  but 
that  few  dare  avenge." 

"Yes,"  he  drawled,  "I  said  that." 

"Very  well,  then;  tell  me  how!" 

"What  do  you  want  to  avenge?  Your 
friend?" 

"His  country's  honour,  and  mine!  If  he 
had  been  slain — otherwise — I  should  have  per 
haps  mourned  him,  confident  in  the  law  of 
France.  But — I  have  seen  the  Rhenish  swine 
on  French  soil — I  saw  the  Boches  do  this 
thing  in  France.  It  is  not  merely  my  friend 
I  desire  to  avenge;  it  is  the  triple  crime 
against  his  life,  against  the  honour  of  his 
country  and  of  mine."  She  had  not  raised 
her  voice;  had  not  stirred  in  her  chair. 

The  airman,  who  had   stopped   eating,   sat 

228 


with  fork  in  hand,  listening,  regarding  her 
intently. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  resuming  his  meal,  "I  under 
stand  quite  well  what  you  mean.  Some  such 
philosophy  sent  my  elder  brother  and  me  over 
here  from  New  York — the  wild  hogs  trampling 
through  Belgium — the  ferocious  herds  from 
the  Rhine  defacing,  defiling,  rending,  obliterat 
ing  all  that  civilized  man  has  reverenced  for 
centuries.  .  .  .  That's  the  idea  —  the  world 
wide  menace  of  these  unclean  hordes — and 
the  murderous  filth  of  them!  .  .  .  They  got 
my  brother." 

He  shrugged,  realizing  that  his  face  had 
flushed  with  the  heat  of  inner  fires. 

"Coolness  does  it,"  he  added,  almost  apolo 
getically,  " — method  and  coolness.  The  world 
must  keep  its  head  clear:  yellow  fever  and 
smallpox  have  been  nearly  stamped  out;  the 
Hun  can  be  eliminated — with  intelligence  and 
clear  thinking.  .  .  .  And  I'm  only  an  Ameri 
can  ainnan  who  has  been  shot  down  like  a 
winged  heron  whose  comrades  have  lingered  a 
little  to  comfort  him  and  have  gone  on.  .  „  . 
Yes,  but  a  winged  heron  can  still  stab,  little 
16  229 


BARBARIANS 


mistress  of  the  bells.  .  .  .  And  every  blow 
counts.  .  .  .  Listen  attentively — for  Jack's  sake 
.  .  .  and  for  the  sake  of  France.  For  I  am 
going  to  explain  to  you  how  you  can  strike — 
if  you  want  to." 

"I  am  listening,"  said  Maryette  serenely. 

"We  may  not  live  through  it.  Even  my 
orders  do  not  send  me  to  do  this  thing;  they 
merely  permit  it.  Are  you  contented  to  go 
with  me?" 

She  nodded,  the  shadow  of  a  smile  on  her 
lips. 

"Very  well.     You  play  the  carillon?" 

"Yes." 

"You  can  play  'La  Brabangonne' ?" 

"Yes." 

"On  the  bells?" 

"Yes." 

He  rose,  went  around  the  table,  carrying 
his  chair  with  him,  and  seated  himself  beside 
her.  She  inclined  her  pale,  pretty  head;  he 
placed  his  lips  close  to  her  ear,  speaking  very 
slowly  and  distinctly,  explaining  his  plan  in 
every  minute  detail. 

While  he  was  still  speaking  in  a  whisper, 

230 


HONOUR 


the  street  outside  filled  with  the  trample  of 
arming  cavalry.  The  Spahis  were  leaving 
the  environs  of  Sainte  Lesse;  chasseurs  a 
cheval  followed  from  still  farther  afield,  es 
corting  ambulances  from  the  Nivelle  hospitals 
now  being  abandoned. 

"The  trenches  at  Nivelle  are  being  emptied," 
said  the  airman. 

"And  do  you  mean  that  you  and  I  are  to 
go  there,  to  Nivelle?"  she  asked. 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  mean.  In  an  hour 
I  shall  be  in  the  Nivelle  belfry.  Will  you  be 
there  with  me?" 

"Yes." 

"Excellent!"  he  exclaimed.  "You  can  play 
'La  Brabangonne'  on  the  bells  while  I  blow 
hell  out  of  them  in  the  redoubt  below  us!" 

The  infantry  from  the  Nivelle  trenches  be 
gan  to  pass.  There  were  a  few  wagons,  a 
battery  of  seventy-fives,  a  soup  kitchen  or  two 
and  a  long  column  of  mules  from  Fontanes. 

Two  American  muleteers  knocked  at  the 
inn  door  and  came  stamping  into  the  hallway, 
asking  for  a  loaf  and  a  bottle  of  red  wine. 
Maryette  rose  from  the  table  to  find  pro- 

231 


BARBARIANS 


visions;  the  airman  got  up  also,  saying  in 
English : 

"Where  do  you  come  from,  boys!" 

"From  Fontanes  corral,"  they  replied,  sur 
prised  to  hear  their  own  tongue  spoken. 

"Do  you  know  Jack  Burley,  one  of  your 
people  ?" 

"Sure.    He's  just  been  winged  bad." 

"The  Huns  done  him  up  something  fierce," 
added  the  other. 

"Very  bad?" 

Maryette  came  back  with  a  loaf  and  two 
bottles. 

"I  seen  him  at  Fontanes,"  replied  the  mule 
teer,  taking  the  provisions  from  the  girl. 
"He's  all  shot  to  pieces,  but  they  say  he'll  pull 
through." 

The  airman  turned  to  Maryette: 

"Jack  will  get  well,"  he  translated  bluntly. 

The  girl,  who  had  just  refused  the  money 
offered  by  the  American  muleteer,  turned 
sharply,  became  deadly  white  for  a  second, 
then  her  face  flamed  with  a  hot  and  splendid 
colour. 

One  of  the  muleteers  said: 

232 


HONOUR 


"Is  this  here  his  girl?" 

"Yes,"  nodded  the  airman. 

The  muleteer  became  voluble,  patting  Mary- 
ette  on  one  arm  and  then  on  the  other: 

"J'ai  vue  Jack  Burley,  mamzelle,  toot  a 
Pheure!  II  est  bien,  savvy  voo!  II  est  tray, 
tray  bien!  Bocoo  de  trou!  N'importe!  I'l 
va  tray  bien !  Savvy  voo  ?  Jack  Burley,  1'ami 
de  voo!  Comprenny?  On  va  le  guerir  toot 
sweet!  Wee!  Wee!  Wee! " 

The  girl  flung  her  arms  around  the  amazed 
muleteer's  neck  and  kissed  him  impetuously 
on  both  cheeks.  The  muleteer  blushed  and 
his  comrade  fidgeted.  Only  the  girl  remained 
unembarrassed. 

Half  laughing,  half  crying,  terribly  excited, 
and  very  lovely  to  look  upon,  she  caught  both 
muleteers  by  their  sleeves  and  poured  out  a 
torrent  of  questions.  With  the  airman's  aid 
she  extracted  what  information  they  had  to 
offer;  and  they  went  their  way,  flustered,  still 
blushing,  clasping  bread  and  bottles  to  their 
agitated  breasts. 

The  airman  looked  her  keenly  in  the  eyes 
as  she  came  back  from  the  door,  still  intensely 

233 


BARBARIANS 


excited,  adorably  transfigured.  She  opened 
her  lips  to  speak — the  happy  exclamation  on 
her  lips,  already  half  uttered,  died  there. 

"Well?"  inquired  the  airman  quietly. 

Dumb,  still  breathing  rapidly,  she  returned 
his  gaze  in  silence. 

"Now  that  your  friend  Jack  is  going  to  live 
— what  next?"  asked  the  airman  pleasantly. 

For  a  full  minute  she  continued  to  stare  at 
him  without  a  word. 

"No  need  to  avenge  him  now,"  added  the 
airman,  watching  her. 

"No."  She  turned,  gazed  vaguely  into 
space.  After  a  moment  she  said,  as  though 
to  herself:  "But  his  country's  honour — and 
mine?  That  reckoning  still  remains!  Is  it 
not  true?" 

The  airman  said,  with  a  trace  of  pity  in  his 
voice,  for  the  girl  seemed  very  young: 

"You  need  not  go  with  me  to  Nivelle  just 
because  you  promised." 

"Oh,"  she  said  simply,  "I  must  go,  of 
course — it  being  a  question  of  our  country's 
honour." 

"I  do  not  ask  it.     Nor  would  Jack,  your 

234 


HONOUR 


friend.  Nor  would  your  own  country  ask  it 
of  you,  Maryette  Courtray." 

She  replied  serenely: 

"But  7  ask  it — of  myself.  Do  you  under 
stand,  monsieur?" 

"Perfectly."  He  glanced  mechanically  at 
his  useless  wrist  watch,  then  inquired  the 
time.  She  went  to  her  room,  returned,  wear 
ing  a  little  jacket  and  carrying  a  pair  of  big, 
wooden  gloves. 

"It  is  after  eleven  o'clock,"  she  said.  "I 
brought  my  jacket  because  it  is  cold  in  all 
belfries.  It  will  be  cold  in  Nivelle,  up  there 
in  the  tower  under  Clovis." 

"You  really  mean  to  go  with  me?" 

She  did  not  even  trouble  to  reply  to  the 
question.  So  he  picked  up  his  packet  and  his 
sack  of  bombs,  and  they  went  out,  side  by 
side,  under  the  tunnelled  wall. 

Infantry  from  Nivelle  trenches  were  still 
plodding  along  the  dark  street  under  the 
trees;  dull  gleams  came  from  their  helmets 
and  bayonets  in  the  obscure  light  of  the  stars. 

The   girl   stood  watching   them   for  a   few 

235 


BARBARIANS 


moments,  then  her  hand  sought  the  airman's 
arm: 

"If  there  is  to  be  a  battle  in  the  street  here, 
my  father  cannot  remain." 

The  airman  nodded,  went  out  into  the  street 
and  spoke  to  a  passing  officer.  He,  in  turn, 
signalled  the  driver  of  a  motor  omnibus  to 
halt. 

The  little  bell-mistress  entered  the  tavern, 
followed  by  two  soldiers.  In  a  few  moments 
they  came  out  bearing,  chair-fashion  between 
them,  the  crippled  innkeeper. 

The  old  man  was  much  alarmed,  but  his 
daughter  followed  beside  him  to  the  omnibus, 
in  which  were  several  lamed  soldiers. 

"Et  toi?"  he  quavered  as  they  lifted  him 
in.  "What  of  thee,  Maryette?" 

"I  follow,"  she  called  out  cheerily.  "I  re 
join  thee — "  the  bus  moved  on — "God  knows 
when  or  where!"  she  added  under  her  breath. 

The  airman  was  whispering  to  a  fat  staff 
officer  when  she  rejoined  him.  All  three 
looked  up  in  silence  at  the  belfry  of  Sainte 
Lesse,  looming  above  them,  a  monstrous 
shadow  athwart  the  stars.  A  moment  later 

236 


HONOUR 


an  automobile,  arriving  from  the  south,  drew 
up  in  front  of  the  inn. 

"Bonne  chance"  said  the  fat  officer 
abruptly;  he  turned  and  waddled  swiftly  away 
in  the  darkness.  They  saw  him  mount  his 
horse.  His  legs  stuck  out  sideways. 

"Now,"  whispered  the  airman,  with  a  nod 
to  the  chauffeur. 

The  little  bell-mistress  entered  the  car,  her 
wooden  gloves  tucked  under  one  arm.  The 
airman  followed  with  his  packet  and  his  sack 
of  bombs.  The  chauffeur  started  his  engine. 

The  middle  of  the  road  was  free  to  him; 
the  edges  were  occupied  by  the  retreating  in 
fantry.  As  the  car  started,  very  slowly,  cau 
tiously  feeling  its  way  out  of  Sainte  Lesse, 
the  fat  staff  officer  turned  his  horse  and 
trotted  up  alongside.  The  car  stopped,  the 
engine  still  running. 

"It's  understood?"  asked  the  officer  in  a  low 
voice.  "It's  to  be  when  we  hear  'La  Braban- 
Qonne'f* 

"When  you  hear  'La  Brabangonne.' " 

"Understood,"  said  the  staff  officer  crisply, 
saluted  and  drew  bridle.  And  the  car  moved 

237 


BARBARIANS 


out  into  the  starlit  night  along  an  endless 
column  of  retreating  soldiers,  who  were  laugh 
ing,  smoking,  and  chatting  as  though  not  in 
the  least  depressed  by  their  withdrawal  from 
the  dry  and  cosy  trenches  of  Nivelle  which 
they  were  abandoning. 


CHAPTER   XX 


LA 

No  shells  were  falling  in  Nivelle  as  they 
left  the  car  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town  and 
entered  the  long  main  street.  That  was  all 
of  Nivelle,  a  long,  treeless  main  street  from 
which  branched  a  few  alleys. 

Smouldering  debris  of  what  had  been  houses 
illuminated  the  street.  There  were  no  other 
lights.  Nothing  stirred  except  a  gaunt  cat 
flitting  like  a  shadow  along  the  gutter.  There 
was  not  a  sound  save  the  faint  stirring  of 
the  cinders  over  which  pale  flames  played 
fitfully. 

Abandoned  trenches  ditched  the  little  town 
in  every  direction;  temporary  shelters  made 
of  boughs,  sheds,  and  broken-down  wagons 
stood  along  the  street.  Otherwise,  all  im 
pedimenta,  materials,  and  stores  had  appar- 

239 


BARBARIANS 


ently  been  removed  by  the  retreating  columns. 
There  was  little  wreckage  except  the  burning 
debris  of  the  few  shell-struck  houses — a  few 
rags,  a  few  piles  of  firewood,  a  bundle  of 
straw  and  hay  here  and  there. 

High,  mounting  toward  the  stars,  the  an 
cient  tower  with  its  gilded  hippogriff  domi 
nated  the  place — a  vast,  vague  shape  brooding 
over  the  single  mile-long  street  and  grimy 
alleys  branching  from  it. 

Nobody  guarded  the  portal;  the  ancient 
doors  stood  wide  open;  pitch  darkness  reigned 
within. 

"Do  you  know  the  way?"  whispered  the 
airman. 

"Yes.     Take  hold  of  my  hand." 

He  dared  not  use  his  flash.  Carrying  bun 
dle  and  bombsack  under  one  arm,  he  sought 
for  her  hand  and  encountered  it.  Cool,  slim 
fingers  closed  over  his. 

After  a  few  moments'  stealthy  advance,  she 
whispered : 

"Here  are  the  stairs.  Be  careful;  they 
twist." 

She  started  npward,  feeling  with  her  feet 

240 


"LA  BRABANCONNE" 


for  every  stone  step.  The  ascent  appeared 
to  be  interminable;  the  narrowing  stone  spiral 
seemed  to  have  no  end.  Her  hand  grew  warm 
within  his  own. 

But  at  last  they  felt  a  fresh  wind  blowing 
and  caught  a  glimpse  of  stars  above  them. 

Then,  tier  on  tier,  the  bells  of  the  carillon, 
fixed  to  their  great  beams,  appeared  above 
them — a  shadowy,  bewildering  wilderness  of 
bells,  rising,  rank  above  rank,  until  they  van 
ished  in  the  darkness  overhead.  Beside  them, 
almost  touching  them,  loomed  the  great  bell 
Clovis,  a  gigantic  mass  bulking  enormously 
in  that  shadowy  place. 

A  sonorous  wind  flowed  through  the  open 
tower,  eddying  among  the  bells — a  strong, 
keen  night  wind  blowing  from  the  north. 

The  airman  walked  to  the  south  parapet 
and  looked  down.  Below  him  in  the  starlight, 
like  an  indistinct  map  spread  out,  lay  the 
Nivelle  redoubt  and  the  trench  with  its 
gabions,  its  sand  bags,  its  timbers,  its  dugouts. 

Very  far  away  to  the  southeast  they  could 
see  the  glare  of  rockets  and  exploding  shells, 
but  the  sound  of  the  bombardment  did  not 

241 


BARBARIANS 


reach  them.  North,  a  single  searchlight 
played  and  switched  across  the  clouds;  west, 
all  was  dark. 

"They'll  arrive  just  before  dawn,"  said  the 
airman,  placing  his  sack  of  bombs  on  the 
pavement  under  the  parapet.  "Come,  little 
bell-mistress,  take  me  to  see  your  keyboard." 

"It  is  below — a  few  steps.  This  way — if 
you  will  follow  me " 

She  turned  to  the  stone  stairs  again,  de 
scended  a  dozen  steps,  opened  a  door  on  a 
narrow  landing. 

And  there,  in  the  starlight,  he  saw  the  key 
board  and  the  bewildering  maze  of  wires  run 
ning  up  and  branching  like  a  huge  web  toward 
the  tiers  of  bells  above. 

He  looked  at  the  keyboard  curiously.  The 
little  mistress  of  the  bells  displayed  the  two 
wooden  gloves  with  which  she  encased  her 
hands  when  she  played  the  carillon. 

"It  would  be  impossible  for  one  to  play 
unless  one's  hands  are  armoured,"  she  ex 
plained. 

"It  is  almost  a  lost  art,"  he  mused  aloud. 

" — this   playing  the   carillon — this   wonderful 

i 

242 


bell-music  of  the  middle  ages.  There  are  few 
great  bell-masters  in  this  day." 

"Few,"  she  said  dreamily. 

"And" — he  turned  and  stared  at  her — "few 
mistresses  of  the  bells,  I  imagine." 

"I  think  I  am  the  only  one  in  France  or  in 
Flanders.  .  .  .  And  there  are  few  carillons 
left.  The  Huns  are  battering  them  down. 
Towers  of  the  ancient  ages  are  falling  every 
where  in  Flanders  and  in  France  under  their 
shell  fire.  Very  soon  there  will  be  no  more 
of  the  old  carillons  left;  no  more  bell-music 
in  the  world."  She  sighed  heavily.  "It  is  a 
pity." 

She  seated  herself  at  the  keyboard. 

"Dare  I  play?"  she  asked,  looking  up  over 
her  shoulder. 

"No;  it  would  only  mean  a  shell  from  the 
Huns." 

She  nodded,  laid  the  wooden  gloves  beside 
her  and  let  her  delicate  hands  wander  over 
the  mute  keys. 

Leaning  beside  her  the  airman  quietly  ex 
plained  the  plan  they  were  to  follow. 

"With  dawn  they  will  come  creeping  into 

243 


BARBARIANS 


Nivelle — the  Huns,"  he  said.  "I  have  one  of 
their  officers'  uniforms  in  that  bundle  above. 
I  shall  try  to  pass  as  a  general  officer.  You 
see,  I  speak  German.  My  education  was 
partly  ruined  in  Germany.  So  I'll  get  on  very 
well,  I  expect. 

"And  directly  under  us  is  the  trench  and 
the  main  redoubt.  They'll  occupy  that  first 
thing.  They'll  swarm  there — the  whole  trench 
will  be  crawling  with  them.  They'll  install 
their  gas  cylinders  at  once,  this  wind  being 
their  wind. 

"But  with  sunrise  the  wind  changes — and 
whether  it  changes  or  not,  I  don't  care,"  he 
added.  "I've  got  them  at  last  where  I  want 
them." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him.  He  smiled  that 
terrifying  smile  of  his: 

"With  the  explosion  of  my  first  bomb  among 
their  gas  cylinders  you  are  to  start  these  bells 
above  us.  Are  you  afraid?" 

"No." 

"You  are  to  play  'La  Brabanc,onne.*  That 
is  the  signal  to  our  trenches." 

"I  have  often  played  it,"  she  said  coolly. 

24-i 


"LA  BRABANCONNE" 


"Not  in  the  teeth  of  a  barbarian  army.  Not 
in  the  faces  of  a  murderous  soldiery." 

The  girl  sat  quite  still  for  a  few  moments; 
then  looking  up  at  him,  and  very  pale  in  the 
starlight  : 

"Do  you  think  they  will  tear  me  to  pieces, 
monsieur!" 

He  said: 

"I  mean  to  hold  those  stairs  with  my  sack 
of  bombs  until  our  people  enter  the  trenches. 
If  they  can  do  it  in  an  hour  we  will  be  all 
right." 

"Yes." 

"It  is  only  a  half  -hour  affair  from  our 
salient.  I  allow  our  people  an  hour." 

"Yes." 

"But  if,  even  now,  you  had  rather  go 
back  --  " 


"There  is  no  disgrace  in  going  back." 
"You    said    once,    'anybody    can    weep    for 
friend  and  country.     Few  avenge  either.'     I 
am  —  happy  —  to  be  among  the  few." 
He  nodded.    After  a  moment  he  said: 
"I'll  bet  you  something.     My  country  is  all 

17  245 


BARBARIANS 


right,  but  it's  sick.  It's  got  a  nauseous  dose 
of  verbiage  to  spew  up — something  it's  swal 
lowed — something  about  being  too  proud  to 
fight.  .  .  .  My  brother  and  I  couldn't  stand 
it,  so  we  came  to  France.  .  .  .  He  was  in  the 
photo  air  service.  He  was  in  mufti — and 
about  two  miles  up,  I  believe.  Six  Huns  went 
for  him.  .  .  .  And  winged  him.  He  had  to 
land  behind  their  lines.  ...  In  mufti.  .  .  . 
"Well — I've  never  found  courage  to  hear  the 
details.  I  can't  stand  them — yet." 

"Your  brother — is  dead,  monsieur?"  she 
asked  timidly. 

"Oh,  yes.  "With — circumstances.  "Well,  then 
— after  that,  from  an  ordinary,  commonplace 
man  I  became  a  machine  for  the  extermination 
of  vermin.  That's  all  I  am — an  animated  maga 
zine  of  Persian  powder — or  I  do  it  in  any 
handy  way.  It's  not  a  sporting  proposition, 
you  see,  just  get  rid  of  them  any  old  way. 
You  don't  understand,  do  you?" 

"A— little." 

"But  it's  slow  work — slow  work,"  he  mut 
tered  vaguely,  " — and  the  world  is  crawling — 
crawling  with  them.  But  if  God  guides  my 

£46 


'LA  BRABANCONXE" 


bomb  this  time  and  if  I  hit  one  of  their  gas 
cylinders — that  ought  to  be  worth  while." 

In  the  starlight  his  features  became  tense 
and  terrible;  she  shivered  in  her  threadbare 
jacket. 

After  a  few  moments'  silence  he  went  away 
up  the  steps  to  put  on  his  German  uniform. 
When  he  descended  again  she  had  a  troubled 
question  for  him  to  answer: 

"But  how  shall  you  account  for  me,  a  French 
girl,  monsieur,  if  they  come  to  the  belfry f" 

A  heavy  flush  darkened  his  face: 

"Little  mistress  of  the  bells,  I  shall  pretend 
to  be  what  the  Huns  are.  Do  you  know  how 
they  treat  French  women?" 

"I  have  heard,"  she  said  faintly. 

"Then  if  they  come  and  find  you  here  as 
my — prisoner — they  will  think  they  under 
stand." 

The  colour  flamed  in  her  face  and  she  bowed 
it,  resting  her  elbows  on  the  keyboard. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "don't  be  distressed.  Does 
it  matter  what  a  Hun  thinks?  Come;  let's 
be  cheerful.  Can  you  hum  for  me  'La  Bra- 
bangonne'  ?" 

247 


BARBARIANS 


She  did  not  reply. 

"Well,  never  mind,"  he  said.  "But  it's  a 
grand  battle  anthem.  .  .  .  We  Americans  have 
one.  .  .  .  It's  out  of  fashion.  And  after  all, 
I  had  rather  hear  'La  Brabangonne'  when  the 
time  comes.  .  .  .  What  a  terrible  admission! 
But  what  Americans  have  done  to  my  country 
is  far  more  terrible.  The  nation's  sick — sick! 
...  I  prefer  'La  Brabangonne'  for  the  time 
being." 

The  Prussians  entered  Nivelle  a  little  be 
fore  dawn.  The  airman  had  been  watching 
the  street  below.  Down  there  in  the  slight 
glow  from  the  cinders  of  what  once  had  been 
a  cottage  a  cat  had  been  squatting,  staring 
at  the  bed  of  coals,  as  though  she  were  once 
more  installed  upon  the  family  hearthstone. 

Then  something  unseen  as  yet  by  the  air 
man  attracted  the  animal's  attention.  Alert, 
crouching,  she  stared  down  the  vista  of  dark, 
deserted  houses,  then  turned  and  fled  like  a 
ghost. 

For  a  long  while  the  airman  perceived 
nothing.  Suddenly  close  to  the  house  facades 

248 


'LA  BRABANCONNE" 


on  either  side  of  the  street,  shadowy  forms 
came  gliding  forward. 

They  passed  the  glowing  embers  and  went 
on  toward  Sainte-Lesse ;  jagers,  with  knap 
sacks  on  back  and  rifles  trailing;  and  on  their 
heads  oddly  shaped  pot  helmets  with  battered 
looking  visors. 

One  or  two  motorcyclists  followed,  whiz 
zing  through  the  desolate  street  and  into  the 
country  beyond. 

After  a  few  minutes,  out  of  the  throat  of 
the  darkness  emerged  a  solid  column  of  infan 
try.  In  a  moment,  beneath  the  bell  tower,  the 
ground  was  swarming  with  Huns;  every  inch 
of  the  earth  became  infested  with  them ;  fields, 
hedges,  alleys  crawled  alive  with  Germans. 
They  overran  every  road,  every  street,  every 
inch  of  open  country;  their  wagons  choked  the 
main  thoroughfare,  they  were  already  estab 
lishing  themselves  in  the  redoubt  below,  in  the 
trench,  running  in  and  out  of  dugouts  and  all 
over  scarp,  counter-scarp,  parades  and  para 
pet,  ant-like  in  energy,  busy  with  machine  gun, 
trench  mortar,  installing  telephones,  search 
lights,  periscopes,  machine  guns. 

249 


BARBARIANS 


Automobiles  arrived — two  armoured  cars 
and  grey  passenger  machines  in  which  there 
were  officers. 

The  airman  laid  his  hand  on  Maryette's  arm. 

"Little  bell-mistress,"  he  said,  "German  offi 
cers  are  coming  into  the  tower.  I  want  them 
to  find  you  in  my  arms  when  they  come  up 
into  this  belfry.  Understand  me,  and  forgive 
me." 

"I — understand,"  she  whispered. 

"Play  your  part  bravely.    "Will  you?" 

"Yes." 

He  put  his  arms  around  her;  they  stood 
rigid,  listening. 

"Now!"  he  whispered,  and  drew  her  close, 
kissing  her. 

Spurred  boots  clattered  on  the  stone  floor: 

"Herr  Je!"  exclaimed  an  astonished  voice. 
Somebody  laughed.  But  the  airman  coolly 
pushed  the  girl  aside,  and  as  the  faint  grey 
light  of  dawn  fell  on  his  field  uniform  bearing 
the  ribbon  of  the  iron  cross,  two  pairs  of 
spurred  heels  hastily  clinked  together  and  two 
hands  flew  to  the  oddly  shaped  helmet  visors. 

"Also!"  exclaimed  the  airman  in  a  mincing 

250 


Berlin  accent.  "When  I  require  a  corps  of 
observers  I  usually  send  my  aide.  That  being 
now  quite  perfectly  understood,  you  gentlemen 
will  give  yourselves  the  trouble  to  descend 
as  you  have  come.  Further,  you  will  place  a 
sentry  at  the  tower  door,  and  inform  enquirers 
that  General  Count  von  Gierdorff  and  his 
staff  are  occupying  the  Nivelle  belfry  for  pur 
poses  of  observation." 

The  astounded  officers  saluted  steadily;  and 
if  they  imagined  that  the  mythical  staff  of  this 
general  officer  was  clustered  aloft  somewhere 
up  there  where  the  bells  hung  it  was  impossi 
ble  to  tell  by  the  strained  expressions  on  their 
wooden  countenances. 

However,  it  was  evidently  perfectly  plain 
to  them  what  the  high  Excellent  was  about  in 
this  vaulted  room  where  wires  led  aloft  to 
an  unseen  carillon  on  the  landing  in  the  bel 
fry  above. 

The  airman  nodded;  they  went.  And  when 
their  clattering  steps  echoed  far  below  on  the 
spiral  stone  stairs,  the  airman  motioned  to 
the  little  bell-mistress.  She  followed  him  up 
the  short  flight  to  where  the  bells  hung. 

251 


BARBARIANS 


"We're  in  for  it  now,"  he  said.  "If  High 
Command  conies  into  this  place  to  investigate 
then  I  shall  have  to  hold  those  stairs.  .  .  . 
It's  growing  quite  light  in  the  east.  Which 
way  is  the  wind?" 

"North,"  she  said  in  a  steady  voice.  She 
•was  terribly  pale. 

He  went  to  the  parapet  and  looked  over, 
half  wondering,  perhaps,  whether  he  would 
receive  a  rifle  shot  through  the  head. 

Far  below  at  the  foot  of  the  bell-tower 
the  dimly  discerned  Nivelle  redoubt,  swarming 
with  men,  was  being  armed;  and,  to  the  south, 
wired  he  thought,  but  could  not  see  dis 
tinctly. 

Then,  as  the  dusk  of  early  dawn  grew 
greyer,  the  first  rifle  shots  rattled  out  in 
the  west.  The  French  salient  was  saluting 
the  wire-stringers. 

Back  under  shelter  they  tumbled;  whistles 
sounded  distantly;  a  trench  mortar  crashed; 
then  the  accentless  tattoo  of  machine  guns 
broke  from  every  emplacement. 

"The  east  is  turning  a  little  yellow,"  he  said 
calmly.  "I  believe  this  matter  is  going  through. 

252 


Toss  some  dust  into  the  air.     Which  way?" 

"North,"  said  the  girl. 

"Good.  I  think  they're  placing  their  cylin 
ders.  I  think  I  can  see  them  laying  their  coils. 
I'm  certain  of  it.  What  luck!" 

The  airman  was  becoming  excited  and  his 
voice  trembled  a  little  with  the  effort  to  con 
trol  it. 

"It's  growing  pink  in  the  east.  Try  a  hand 
ful  of  dust  again,"  he  suggested  almost  gaily. 

"North,"  she  said  briefly,  watching  the  dust 
aloft. 

"Luck's  with  us!  Look  at  the  east!  If 
their  High  Command  keeps  his  nose  out  of 
this  place! — if  he  does  I — Look  at  the  east,  lit 
tle  bell-mistress !  It's  all  gold !  There's  pink 
up  higher.  I  can  see  a  faint  tinge  of  blue, 
too.  Can  you?" 

"I  think  so." 

A  minute  dragged  like  a  year  in  prison. 
Then: 

"Try  the  wind  again,"  he  said  in  a  strained 
voice. 

"North." 

"Oh,  luck !    Luck !"  he  muttered,  slinging  his 

253 


BARBARIANS 


sack  of  bombs  over  his  shoulder.  "We've 
got  them!  We've  certainly  got  them!  What's 
that!  An  airplane!  Look,  little  girl — one  of 
our  planes  is  up.  There's  another!  Which 
way  is  the  wind?" 

"North." 

"Got  'em!"  he  snapped  between  his  teeth. 
"Bun  over  to  the  stairs.  Listen!  Is  anybody 
coming  up?" 

"I  can  hear  nothing." 

"Stand  there  and  listen.  Never  mind  the 
row  the  guns  are  making;  listen  for  some 
body  on  the  stairs.  Look  how  light  it's  get- 
ting!  The  sun  will  push  up  before  many 
minutes.  We've  got  'em!  Got  'em!  W^et 
your  finger  and  try  the  wind!" 

"North." 

"North  here,  too.  What  do  you  know  about 
that!  Luck!  Luck's  with  us!  And  we've  got 
'em — !"  he  lifted  his  clenched  hand  and 
laughed  at  her.  "Like  that!"  he  said,  his  blue 
eyes  blazing.  "They're  getting  ready  to  gas 
below.  Look  at  'em!  Glory  to  God!  I  can 
see  two  cylinders  directly  under  me.  They're 
manning  the  nozzles !  Every  man  is  masking 

254 


'LA  BRABANCONNE" 


at  Ms  post!  Anybody  on  the  stairs!  Any 
sound!" 

"None." 

"Are  you  certain!" 

"It  is  as  still  as  death  below." 

"Try  the  dust.  The  wind's  changing,  I 
think.  Quick!  Which  way?" 

"West." 

"Oh,  glory!  Glory  to  God!  They  feel  it 
below!  They  know.  The  wind  has  changed. 
Off  came  their  respirators.  No  gas  this  morn 
ing,  eh!  Yes,  by  God,  there  will  be  gas  enough 
for  all !" 

He  caught  up  a  bomb,  leaned  over  the  para 
pet,  held  it  aloft,  poised,  aiming  steadily  for 
one  second  of  concentrated  coordination  of 
mind  and  muscle.  Then  straight  down  he 
launched  it.  The  cylinder  beneath  him  was 
shattered  and  a  green  geyser  of  gas  burst  from 
it  deluging  the  trench. 

Already  a  second  bomb  followed  the  first, 
then  another,  and  then  a  third;  and  with  the 
last  report  another  cylinder  in  the  trench  be 
low  burst  into  thick  green  billows  of  death  and 
flowed  over  the  ground,  west. 

255 


BARBARIANS 


Two  more  bombs  whirled  down,  bursting  on 
a  machine  gun;  then  the  airman  turned  with  a 
cry  of  triumph,  and  at  the  same  instant  the 
sun  rose  above  the  hills  and  flung  a  golden 
ray  straight  across  his  face. 

To  Maryette  the  man  stood  transfigured, 
like  the  Blazing  Guardian  of  the  Flaming 
Sword. 

"King  out  your  Brabanc.onne !"  he  cried. 
"Let  the  Huns  hear  the  war  song  of  the  land 
they've  trampled!  Now!  Little  bell-mistress, 
arm  your  white  hands  with  your  wooden  gloves 
and  make  this  old  carillon  speak  in  brass  and 
iron !" 

He  caught  her  by  the  arm;  they  ran  down 
the  short  flight  of  steps;  she  drew  on  her 
wooden  gloves  and  sprang  to  the  keyboard. 

"I'll  hold  the  stairs!"  he  cried.  "I  can 
hold  these  stairs  for  an  hour  against  the 
whole  world  in  arms.  Now,  then!  The  Bra 
banc.onne  !" 

Above  the  roaring  confusion  and  the  explo 
sions  far  below,  from  high  up  in  the  sky  a 
clear  bell  note  floated  as  though  out  of 
Heaven  itself — another,  others,  crystalline 

256 


BRABANCONNE' 


clear,  imperious,  filling  all  the  sky  with  their 
amazing  and  terrible  beauty. 

The  mistress  of  the  bells  struck  the  key 
board  with  armoured  hands — beautiful,  slen 
der,  avenging  hands;  the  bells  above  her 
crashed  out  into  the  battle-song  of  Flanders, 
filling  sky  and  earth  with  its  splendid  defi 
ance  of  the  Hun. 

The  airman,  bomb  in  hand,  stood  at  the 
head  of  the  stone  stairs;  the  ancient  tower 
rocked  with  the  fiercely  magnificent  anthem 
of  revolt — the  war  cry  of  a  devastated  land 
— the  land  that  died  to  save  the  world — the 
martyr,  Belgium,  still  prone  in  the  deathly 
trance  awaiting  her  certain  resurrection. 

The  rising  sun  struck  the  tower  where 
three  score  ancient  bells  poured  from  metal 
throats  their  heavenly  summons  to  battle! 

The  Hun  heard  it,  tumbling,  clawing,  stran 
gling  below  in  the  hellish  vapours  of  his  own 
death-fog;  and  now,  from  the  rear  his  sky- 
guns  hurled  shrapnel  at  the  carillon  in  the 
belfry  of  Nivelle. 

Clouds  possessed  the  tower — soft,  white, 
fleecy  clouds  rolling,  unfolding,  floating  about 

257 


BARBARIANS 


the  ancient  buttresses  and  gargoyles.  An  iron 
hail  rained  on  slate  and  parapet  and  resound 
ing  bell-metal.  But  the  bells  pealed  and  pealed 
in  clear-voiced  beauty,  and  Clovis,  the  great 
iron  giant,  hung,  scarcely  sonorous  under  the 
shrapnel  rain. 

Suddenly  there  were  bayonets  on  the  stairs 
— the  clatter  of  heavy  feet — alien  faces  on  the 
threshold.  Then  a  bomb  flew,  and  the  terrible 
crash  cleared  the  stairs. 

Twice  more  the  clatter  came  with  the  clank 
of  bayonets  and  guttural  cries;  but  both  died 
out  in  the  infernal  roar  of  the  grenades  explod 
ing  inside  that  stony  spiral.  And  no  more 
bayonets  flickered  on  the  stairs. 

The  airman,  frozen  to  a  statue,  listened. 
Again  and  again  he  thought  he  could  hear 
bugles,  but  the  roar  from  below  blotted  out 
the  distant  call. 

"Little  bell-mistress !" 

She  turned  her  head,  her  hands  still  striking 
the  keyboard.  He  spoke  through  the  confu 
sion  of  the  place: 

"Sound  the  tocsin!" 

Then  Clovis  thundered  from  the  belfry  like 

258 


'LA    BRABAN^ONNE" 


a  great  gun  fired,  booming  out  over  the  world. 
Around  the  iron  colossus  shrapnel  swept  in 
gusts;  Clovis  thundered  on,  annihilating  all 
sound  except  his  own  tremendous  voice,  heed 
less  of  shell  and  bullet,  disdainful  of  the  hell's 
shambles  below,  where  masked  French  infantry 
were  already  leaping  the  parapets  of  Nivelle 
Redoubt  into  the  squirming  masses  below. 

The  airman  shouted  at  her  through  the 
tumult : 

"They  murdered  my  brother.  Did  I  tell 
you?  They  hacked  him  to  slivers  with  their 
bayonets.  I've  settled  the  reckoning  down  in 
the  gas  there — their  own  green  gas,  damn 
them!  You  don't  understand  what  I  say,  do 
you?  He  was  my  brother " 

A  frightful  explosion  blew  in  the  oubliette; 
the  room  rattled  and  clattered  with  shrapnel. 

The  airman  swayed  where  he  stood  in  the 
swirling  smoke,  lurched  up  against  the  stone 
coping,  slid  down  to  his  knees. 

When  his  eyes  opened  the  little  bell-mistress 
was  bending  over  him. 

"They  got  me,"  he  gasped.  All  the  front  of 
his  tunic  was  sopping  red. 

259 


"They  said  it  meant  the  cross — if  I  made 
good.  .  .  .  Are  you  hurt?" 

"Oh,  no!"  she  whispered.     "But  you— 

"Go  on  and  play!"  he  whispered  with  a  ter 
rible  effort. 

"But  you " 

"The  Brabangonne !     Quick!" 

She  went,  whimpering.  Standing  before  the 
keyboard  she  pulled  on  her  wooden  gloves  and 
struck  the  keys. 

Out  over  the  infernal  uproar  below  pealed 
the  bells ;  the  morning  sky  rang  with  the  noble 
summons  to  all  brave  men.  Once  more  the 
ancient  tower  trembled  with  the  mighty  out- 
crash  of  the  battle  hymn. 

With  the  last  note  she  turned  and  looked 
down  at  him  where  he  lay  against  the  wpU.  He 
opened  his  glazing  eyes  and  tried  to  smile  at 
her. 

"Bully,"  he  whispered.  "Could  you  recite— 
the  words — to  me — just  so  I  could  hear  them 
on  my  way — West?" 

She  left  the  keyboard,  came  and  dropped 
on  her  knees  beside  him;  and  closing  her  eyes 
to  check  the  tears  sang  in  a  low,  tremulous, 

260 


"LA  BRABANCONNE" 


girlish  voice,  De  Lonlay's  words,  to  the  battle 
anthem  of  revolution. 

"Bully,"  he  sighed.  And  spoke  no  more  on 
earth. 

But  the  little  mistress  of  the  bells  did  not 
know  his  soul  had  passed. 

And  the  French  officer  who  came  leaping  up 
the  stairs,  pistol  lifted,  halted  in  astonishment 
to  see  a  dead  man  lying  beside  a  sack  of 
bombs  and  a  young  girl  on  her  knees  beside 
him,  weeping  and  tremblingly  intoning  "La 
Brabangonne." 


18 


CHAPTER   XXI 

THE   GAEDENER 

A  week  later,  toward  noon,  as  usual,  the 
two  American  muleteers,  Smith  and  Glenn, 
sauntered  over  from  their  corral  to  the  White 
Doe  Tavern  where,  it  being  a  meatless  day, 
they  ate  largely  of  potato  soup  and  of  a 
tench,  smoking  hot. 

The  tench  had  been  caught  that  morning  off 
the  back  doorstep,  which  was  an  ancient  and 
mossy  slab  of  limestone  let  into  the  coping  of 
the  river  wall. 

Jean  Courtray,  the  crippled  inn-keeper, 
caught  it.  All  that  morning  he  had  sat  there 
in  the  sun  on  the  river  wall,  half  dozing,  open 
ing  his  dim  eyes  at  intervals  to  gaze  at  his 
painted  quill  afloat  among  the  water  weeds  of 
the  little  river  Lesse.  At  intervals,  too,  he 
turned  his  head  with  that  peculiar  movement 

262 


of  the  old,  and  peered  at  his  daughter,  Mary- 
ette,  and  the  Belgian  gardener  who  were  work 
ing  among  the  potatoes  in  the  garden. 

And  at  last  he  had  hooked  his  fish  and  the 
emaciated  young  Belgian  dropped  his  hoe  and 
came  over  and  released  it  from  the  hook  where 
it  lay  flopping  and  quivering  and  glittering 
among  the  wild  grasses  on  the  river  bank.  And 
that  was  how  Kid  Glenn  and  Sticky  Smith, 
American  muleteers  on  duty  at  Saint  Lesse, 
came  to  lunch  on  freshly  caught  tench  at  the 
Inn  of  the  White  Doe. 

After  luncheon,  agreeably  satiated,  they  rose 
from  the  table  in  the  little  dining  room  and 
strolled  out  to  the  garden  in  the  rear  of  the 
inn,  their  Mexican  spurs  clanking.  Maryette 
heard  them;  they  tipped  their  caps  to  her; 
she  acknowledged  their  salute  gravely  and  con 
tinued  to  cultivate  her  garden  with  a  hoe,  the 
blond,  consumptive  Belgian  trundling  a  rickety 
cultivator  at  her  heels. 

"Look,  Stick,"  drawled  Glenn.  "Maryette's 
got  her  decoration  on." 

From  where  they  lounged  by  the  river  wall 

263 


they  could  see  the  cross  of  the  Legion  pinned 
to  the  girl's  blouse. 

Both  muleteers  had  been  present  at  the  in 
vestment  the  day  before,  when  a  general  officer 
arrived  from  Paris  and  the  entire  garrison  of 
Sainte  Lesse  had  been  paraded — an  impressive 
total  of  three  dozen  men — six  gendarmes  and 
a  brigadier;  one  remount  sub-lieutenant  and 
twenty  troopers ;  a  veterinary,  two  white  Amer 
ican  muleteers,  and  five  American  negro  hos 
tlers  from  Baton  Eouge. 

The  girl  had  nearly  died  of  shyness  during 
the  ceremony,  had  endured  the  accolade  with 
crimson  cheeks,  had  stammered  a  whispered 
response  to  the  congratulations  of  neighbors 
who  had  gathered  to  see  the  little  bell-mistress 
of  Sainte  Lesse  honoured  by  the  country  which 
she  had  served  in  the  belfry  of  Nivelle. 

As  she  came  past  Smith  and  Glenn,  trailing 
her  hoe,  the  latter  now  sufficiently  proficient 
in  French,  said  gaily: 

"Have  you  heard  from  Jack  again,  Mam- 
zelle  Maryettef 

The  girl  blushed: 

264 


THE    GARDENER 


"I  hear  from  Djack  by  every  mail,"  she 
said,  with  all  the  transparent  honesty  that 
characterized  her. 

Smith  grinned: 

"Just  like  that!  Well,  tell  him  from  me 
to  quit  fooling  away  his  time  in  a  hospital 
and  come  and  get  you  or  somebody  is  going 
to  steal  you." 

The  girl  was  very  happy;  she  stood  there 
in  the  September  sunshine  leaning  on  her  hoe 
and  gazing  half  shyly,  half  humorously  down 
the  river  where  a  string  of  American  mules 
was  being  watered. 

Mellow  Ethiopian  laughter  sounded  from  the 
distance  as  the  Baton  Eouge  negroes  ex 
changed  pleasantries  in  limited  French  with 
a  couple  of  gendarmes  on  the  bank  above  them. 
And  there,  in  the  sunshine  of  the  little  garden 
by  the  river,  war  and  death  seemed  very  far 
away.  Only  at  intervals  the  veering  breeze 
brought  to  Sainte  Lesse  the  immense  vibra 
tion  of  the  cannonade;  only  at  intervals  the 
high  sky-clatter  of  an  airplane  reminded  the 
village  that  the  front  was  only  a  little  north 

265 


BARBARIANS 


of  Nivelle,  and   that  what  had  been  Nivelle 
was  not  so  very  far  away. 

"If  you  were  my  girl,  Maryette,"  remarked 
Smith,  "I'd  die  of  worry  in  that  hospital." 

"You  might  have  reason  to,  Monsieur,"  re.- 
torted  the  girl  demurely.  "But  you  see  it's 
Djack  who  is  convalescing,  not  you." 

She  had  become  accustomed  to  the  ceaseless 
banter  of  Burley's  two  comrades — a  banter 
entirely  American,  and  which  at  first  she  was 
unable  to  understand.  But  now  all  things 
American,  including  accent  and  odd,  perverted 
humour,  had  become  very  dear  to  her.  The 
clink-clank  of  the  muleteer's  big  spurs  always 
set  her  heart  beating;  the  sight  of  an  arriving 
convoy  from  the  Channel  port  thrilled  her, 
and  to  her  the  trample  of  mules,  the  shouts 
of  foreign  negroes,  the  drawling,  broken  French 
spoken  by  the  white  muleteers  made  heavenly 
real  to  her  the  dream  which  love  had  so  sud 
denly  invaded,  and  into  which,  as  suddenly, 
strode  Death,  clutching  at  Love. 

She  had  beaten  him  off — she  had — or  God 
had — routed  Death,  driven  him  from  the  dream. 

266 


THE    GARDENER 


For  it  was  a  dream  to  her  still,  and  she  thought 
she  could  never  be  able  to  comprehend  the 
magic  reality  of  it,  even  when  at  last  her 
man,  "Djack,"  came  back  to  prove  the  blessed 
miracle  which  held  her  in  the  magic  of  its 
thrall. 

"Who's  the  guy  with  the  wheelbarrow?"  in 
quired  Sticky  Smith,  rolling  a  cigarette. 

"Karl,  his  name  is,"  she  answered;  " — a 
Belgian  refugee." 

"He  looks  like  a  Hun  to  me,"  remarked 
Glenn,  bluntly. 

"He  has  his  papers,"  said  the  girl. 

Glenn  shrugged. 

"With  his  little  pink  eyes  of  a  pig  and  his 
whitish  hair  and  eyebrows — well,  maybe  they 
make  'em  like  that  in  Belgium." 

"Papers,"  added  Smith,  "can  be  swiped." 

The  girl  shook  her  head: 

"He's  an  invalid  student  from  Ypres.  He 
looks  quite  ill,  I  think." 

"He  looks  the  lunger,  all  right.  But  Huns 
have  it,  too.  What  does  he  do — wander  about 
town  at  will?" 

267 


BARBARIANS 


"He  works  for  us,  monsieur.  Your  suspi 
cions  are  harsh.  Karl  is  quite  harmless,  poor 
boy." 

"What  does  he  do  after  hours'?"  demanded 
Sticky  Smith,  watching  the  manoeuvres  of  the 
sickly  blond  youth  and  the  wheelbarrow. 

"Monsieur  Smith,  if  you  knew  how  innocent 
is  his  pastime!"  she  exclaimed,  laughing.  "He 
collects  and  studies  moths  and  butterflies.  Is 
there,  if  you  please,  a  mania  more  harmless  in 
the  world?  .  .  .  And  now  I  must  return  to  my 
work,  messieurs." 

As  the  two  muleteers  strode  clanking  away 
toward  the  canal  in  the  meadow,  the  blond 
youth  turned  his  head  and  looked  after  them 
out  of  eyes  which  were  naturally  pale  and 
small,  and  which,  as  he  watched  the  two  Amer 
icans,  seemed  to  grow  paler  and  smaller  yet. 

That  afternoon  old  Courtray,  swathed  in  a 
shawl,  sat  on  the  mossy  doorstep  and  fished 
among  the  water  weeds  of  the  river.  The  sun 
was  low;  work  in  the  garden  had  ended. 

Maryette  had  gone  up  into  her  beflfry  to 
play  the  sunset  hymn  on  the  noble  old  carillon. 
Through  the  sunset  sky  the  lovely  bell-notes 

268 


THE    GARDENER 


floated  far  and  wide,  exquisitely  chaste  and 
aloof  as  the  high-showering  ecstasy  of  a  sky 
lark. 

As  always  the  little  village  looked  upward 
and  listened,  pausing  in  its  humble  duties  as 
long  as  their  little  bell-mistress  remained  iii 
her  tower. 

After  the  hymn  she  played  "Myn  hart  is  vol 
yerlangen"  and  "Het  Lied  der  Vlamingen," 
and  ended  with  the  delicate,  bewitching  little 
folk-song,  "Myn  Vryer,"  by  Hasselt. 

Then  in  the  red  glow  of  the  setting  sun  the 
girl  laid  aside  her  wooden  gloves,  rose  from 
the  ancient  keyboard,  wound  up  the  drum,  and, 
her  duty  done  for  the  evening,  came  down  out 
of  the  tower  among  the  transparent  evening 
shadows  of  the  tree-lined  village  street. 

The  sun  hung  over  Nivelle  hills,  which  had 
turned  to  amethyst.  Sunbeams  laced  the  little 
river  in  a  red  net  through  which  old  Cour- 
tray's  quill  stemmed  the  ripples.  He  still 
clutched  his  fishing  pole,  but  his  eyes  were 
closed,  his  chin  resting  on  his  chest. 

Maryette  came  silently  into  the  garden  and 
looked  at  her  father — looked  at  the  blond  Karl 

269 


BARBARIANS 


sea-ted  on  the  river  wall  beside  the  dozing 
angler.  The  blond  youth  had  a  box  on  his 
knees  into  which  he  was  intently  peering. 

The  girl  came  to  the  river  wall  and  seated 
herself  at  her  father's  feet.  The  Belgian  refu 
gee  student  had  already  risen  to  attention,  his 
heels  together,  but  Maryette  signed  him  to  be 
seated  again. 

"What  have  you  found  now,  Karl?"  she  in 
quired  in  a  cautiously  modulated  voice. 

"Ah,  mademoiselle,  fancy!  I  haff  by  chance 
with  my  cultivator  among  your  potatoes  already 
twenty  pupae  of  the  magnificent  moth,  Sphinx 
Atropos,  upturned !  See !  Regard  them,  made 
moiselle!  What  lucky  chance!  What  fortune 
for  me,  an  entomologist,  this  wonderful  sphinx 
moth  to  discover  encased  within  its  chrysalis  I" 

The  girl  smiled  at  his  enthusiasm: 

"But,  Karl,  those  funny,  smooth  brown 
things  which  resemble  little  polished  evergreen- 
cones  are  not  rare  in  my  garden.  Often,  when 
spading  or  hoeing  among  the  potato  vines,  I 
uncover  them." 

"Mademoiselle,  the  caterpillar  which  makes 
this  chrysalis  feeds  by  night  on  the  leaves  of 

270 


THE   GARDENER 


the  potato,  and,  when  ready  to  transform,  bur 
rows  into  the  earth  to  become  a  chryalis  or 
pupa,  as  we  call  it.  That  iss  why  mademoiselle 
has  often  disinterred  the  pupae  of  this  largest 
and  strangest  of  our  native  sphinx-moths." 

Maryette  leaned  over  and  looked  into  the 
wooden  box,  where  lay  the  chrysalides. 

"What  kind  of  moth  do  they  make?"  she 
asked. 

He  blinked  his  small,  pale  eyes: 

"The  Death's  Head,"  he  said,  complacently. 

The  girl  recoiled  involuntarily: 

"Oh!"  she  exclaimed  under  her  breath, 
" — that  creature!" 

For  everywhere  in  France  the  great  moth, 
with  its  strange  and  ominous  markings,  is  per 
fectly  well  known.  To  the  superstitious  it  is 
a  creature  of  evil  omen  in  its  fulvous,  black 
and  lead-coloured  livery  of  death.  For  the 
broad,  furry  thorax  bears  a  skull,  and  the  big, 
mousy  body  the  yellow  ribs  of  a  skeleton. 

Measuring  often  more  than  five  inches  across 
the  expanded  wings,  its  formidable  size  alone 
might  be  sufficient  to  inspire  alarm,  but  in  ad 
dition  it  possesses  a  horrid  attribute  unknown 

271 


BARBARIANS 


among  other  moths  and  butterflies;  it  can 
utter  a  cry — a  tiny  shrill,  shuddering  com 
plaint.  Small  wonder,  perhaps,  that  the  peas 
ant  holds  it  in  horror — this  sleek,  furry,  pow 
erfully  winged  creature  marked  with  skull  and 
bones,  which  whirrs  through  the  night  and 
comes  thudding  against  the  window,  and 
shrieks  horridly  when  touched  by  a  human 
hand. 

"So  that  is  what  turns  into  the  Death's  Head 
moth,"  said  the  girl  in  a  low  voice  as  though 
to  herself.  "I  never  knew  it.  I  thought  those 
things  were  legless  cock-chafers  when  I  dug 
them  out  of  potato  hills.  Karl,  why  do  you 
keep  them?" 

"Ah,  mademoiselle!  To  study  them.  To 
breed  from  them  the  moth.  The  Death's  Head 
is  magnificent." 

"God  made  it,"  admitted  the  girl  with  a 
faint  shudder,  "but  I  am  afraid  I  could  not 
love  it.  "When  do  they  hatch  out?" 

"It  is  time  now.  It  is  not  like  others  of  the 
sphinx  family.  Incubation  requires  but  a  few 
weeks.  These  are  nearly  ready  to  emerge, 
mademoiselle." 

272 


THE   GARDENER 


"Oh.     And  then  what  do  they  do?" 

"They  mate." 

She  was  silent. 

"The  males  seek  the  females,"  he  said  in  his 
pedantic,  monotonous  voice.  "And  so  ardent 
are  the  lovers  that  although  there  be  no  female 
moth  within  five,  eight,  perhaps  ten  miles,  yet 
will  her  lover  surely  search  through  the  night 
for  her  and  find  her." 

Maryette  shuddered  again  in  spite  of  her 
self.  The  thought  of  this  creature  marked 
with  the  emblems  of  death  and  possessed  of 
ardour,  too,  was  distasteful. 

"Amour  macabre — -what  an  unpleasant 
thought,  Karl.  I  do  not  care  for  your  Death's 
Head  and  for  the  history  of  their  amours." 

She  turned  and  gently  laid  her  head  on  her 
father's  knees.  The  young  man  regarded  her 
with  a  pallid  sneer. 

Addressing  her  back,  still  holding  his  box 
ful  of  pupae  on  his  bony  knees,  he  said  with 
the  sneer  quite  audible  in  his  voice: 

"Your  famous  savant,  Fabre,  first  inspired 
me  to  study  tha  sex  habits  of  the  Death's 
Head." 

273 


BARBARIANS 


She  made  no  reply,  her  cheek  resting  on  her 
father's  knees. 

"It  was  because  of  his  wonderful  experi 
ments  with  the  Great  Peacock  moth  and  with 
others  of  the  genus  that  I  have  studied  to 
acquaint  myself  concerning  the  amours  of  the 
Death's  Head.  And  I  have  discovered  that  he 
will  find  the  female  even  if  she  be  miles  and 
miles  away" 

The  man  was  grinning  now  in  the  dusk — 
grinning  like  a  skull;  but  the  girl's  back  was 
still  turned  and  she  merely  found  something 
in  his  voice  not  quite  agreeable. 

"I  think,"  she  said  in  a  low,  quiet  voice, 
"that  I  have  now  heard  sufficient  about  the 
Death's  Head  moth." 

"Ah — have  I  offended  mademoiselle?  I  ask 
a  thousand  pardons " 

Old  Courtray  awoke  in  the  dusk. 

"My  quill,  Maryette,"  he  muttered,  " — see  if 
it  floats  yet?" 

The  girl  bent  over  the  water  and  strained 
her  eyes.  Her  father  tested  the  line  with  shaky 
hands.  There  was  no  fish  on  the  hook. 

"Voyons!    The  asticot  also  is  gone.     Some 

274 


THE    GARDENER 


robber  fish  has  been  nibbling!"  exclaimed  the 
girl  cheerfully,  reeling  in  the  line.  "Father, 
one  cannot  fish  and  doze  at  the  same  time." 

"Eternal  vigilance  is  the  price  of  success — in 
peace  as  well  as  in  war,"  said  Karl,  the  stu 
dent,  as  he  aided  Maryette  to  raise  her  father 
from  the  chair. 

"Vigilance,"  repeated  the  girl.  "Yes,  al 
ways  now  in  France.  Because  always  the 
enemy  is  listening."  .  .  .  Her  strong  young 
arm  around  her  father,  she  traversed  the  gar 
den  slowly  toward  the  house.  'A  pleasant 
odour  came  from  the  kitchen  of  the  White  Doe, 
where  an  old  peasant  woman  was  cooking. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

THE   SUSPECT 

That  night  she  wrote  to  her  lover  at  the 
great  hospital  in  the  south,  where  he  lay  slowly 
growing  well: 

MY  DJACK: 

Today  has  been  very  beautiful,  made  so  for  me 
by  my  thoughts  of  you  and  by  a  warm  September 
sun  which  makes  for  human  happiness,  too. 

I  am  wearing  my  ribbon  of  the  Legion.  Ah, 
my  Djack,  it  belongs  more  rightly  to  you,  who  would 
not  let  me  go  alone  to  Nivelle  that  dreadful  day. 
Why  do  they  not  give  you  the  cross  ?  They  must  be 
very  stupid  in  Paris. 

All  day  my  happy  thoughts  have  been  with  you, 
my  Djack.  It  all  seems  a  blessed  dream  that  we 
love  each  other.  And  I — oh,  how  could  I  have  been 
so  ignorant,  so  silly,  not  to  know  it  sooner  than  I  did ! 

I  don't  know;  I  thought  it  was  friendship.  And 
that  was  so  wonderful  to  me  that  I  never  dreamed 
any  other  miracle  possible ! 

Allans,  my  Djack.    Come  and  instruct  me  quickly, 

276 


THE   SUSPECT 


because  my  desire  for  further  knowledge  is  very 
ardent. 

The  news?  Cher  ami,  there  is  little.  Always 
the  far  thunder  beyond  Nivelle  in  ruins;  sometimes 
a  battle-plane  high  in  the  blue;  a  convoy  of  your 
beloved  mules  arriving  from  the  coast;  nothing  more 
exciting. 

Monsieur  Smeet  and  Monsieur  Glenn  inquire  al 
ways  concerning  you.  They  are  brave  and  kind; 
their  odd  jests  amuse  me. 

My  father  caught  a  tench  in  the  Lesse  this  morn 
ing. 

My  gardener,  Karl,  collected  many  unpleasant 
creatures  while  hoeing  our  potatoes.  Poor  lad,  he 
seems  unhealthy.  I  am  glad  I  could  offer  him  em 
ployment. 

My  Djack,  there  could  not  possibly  be  any  mis 
take  about  him,  could  there?  His  papers  are  en 
regie.  He  is  what  he  pretends,  a  Belgian  student 
from  Ypres  in  distress  and  ill  health,  is  he  not? 

But  how  can  you  answer  me,  you  who  lie  there  all 
alone  in  a  hospital  at  Nice?  Also,  I  am  ashamed  of 
myself  for  doubting  the  unfortunate  young  man.  I 
am  too  happy  to  doubt  anybody,  perhaps. 

And  so  good  night,  my  Djack.  Sleep  sweetly, 
guarded  by  powerful  angels. 

Thy  devoted, 

MARYETTE. 

She  had  been  writing  in  the  deserted  cafe. 
Now  she  took  a  candle  and  went  slowly  up- 
19  277. 


BARBARIANS 


stairs.    On  the  white  plaster  wall  of  her  bed 
room  was  a  Death's  Head  moth. 

The  girl,  startled  for  an  instant,  stood  still; 
an  unfeigned  shiver  of  displeasure  passed  over 
her.  Not  that  the  Death's  Head  was  an  un 
familiar  or  terrifying  sight  to  her;  in  late 
summer  she  usually  saw  one  or  two  which  had 
flown  through  some  lighted  window. 

But  it  was  the  amorous  history  of  this  crea 
ture  which  the  student  Karl  had  related  that 
now  repelled  her.  This  night  creature  with 
the  skull  on  its  neck,  once  scarcely  noticed,  had 
now  become  a  trifle  repulsive. 

She  went  nearer,  lifting  the  lighted  candle. 
The  thing  crouched  there  with  slanted  wings. 
It  was  newly  hatched,  its  sleek  body  still  wet 
with  the  humors  of  incubation — wet  as  a 
soaked  mouse.  Its  abdomen,  too,  seemed  enor 
mous,  all  swelled  and  distended  with  unfertil 
ized  eggs.  No,  there  could  be  no  question  con 
cerning  the  sex  of  the  thing;  this  was  a  female, 
and  her  tumefied  body  was  almost  bursting 
with  eggs. 

In  startling  design  the  yellow  skull  stood 
out;  the  ribs  of  the  skeleton.  Two  tiny,  fiery 

278 


THE   SUSPECT 


eyes  glimmered  at  the  base  of  the  antennae — 
two  minute  jewelled  sparks  of  glowing,  lambent 
fire.  They  seemed  to  be  watching  her,  mali 
ciously  askance. 

The  very  horrid  part  of  it  was  that,  if 
touched,  the  creature  would  cry  out.  The  girl 
knew  this,  hesitated,  looked  at  the  open  window 
through  which  it  must  have  crawled,  and  sat 
down  on  her  bed  to  consider  the  situation. 

"After  all,"  she  said  to  herself  resolutely. 
"God  made  it.  It  is  harmless.  If  God  thought 
fit  to  paint  one  of  his  lesser  creatures  like  a 
skeleton,  perhaps  it  was  to  remind  us  that 
life  is  brief  and  that  we  should  lose  no  time 
to  live  it  nobly  in  His  sight.  ...  I  think  that 
perhaps  explains  it." 

However,  she  did  not  undress. 

"I  am  quite  foolish  to  be  afraid  of  this 
poor  moth.  I  repeat  that  I  am  foolish.  Allez 
— I  am  not  afraid.  I  am  no  longer  afraid.  I 
— I  admire  this  handiwork  of  God." 

She  sat  looking  at  the  creature,  her  hands 
lying  clasped  in  her  lap. 

"It's  a  very  odd  thing,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"that  a  lover  can  find  this  creature  even  if  he 

279 


be  miles  and  miles  away.  .  .  .  Maybe  he's  on 
his  way  now " 

Instinctively  she  sprang  up  and  closed  her 
bedroom  window. 

"No,"  she  said,  looking  severely  at  the  mo 
tionless  moth,  ''you  shall  have  no  visitors  in 
my  room.  You  may  remain  here;  I  shall  not 
disturb  you;  and  tomorrow  you  will  go  away 
of  your  own  accord.  But  I  cannot  permit  you 
to  receive  company ' 

A  heavy  fall  on  the  floor  above  checked  her. 
Breathless,  listening,  she  crept  to  her  door. 

"Karl!"  she  called. 

Listening  again,  she  could  hear  distant  and 
vaguely  dreadful  sounds  from  the  gardener- 
student's  room  above. 

She  was  frightened  but  she  went  up.  The 
youth  had  had  a  bad  hemorrhage.  She  sat 
beside  him  late  into  the  night.  After  his 
breathing  grew  quieter,  sitting  there  in  silence 
she  could  hear  odd  sounds,  rustling,  squeak 
ing  sounds  from  the  box  of  Death's  Head  chry- 
salids  on  the  night  table  beside  his  bed. 

The  pupas  of  the  Death's  Head  were  making 
merry  in  anticipation  of  the  rapidly  approach- 

280 


THE   SUSPECT 


ing  change — the  Great  Adventure  of  their  lives 
— the  corning  metamorphosis. 

The  youth  lay  asleep  now.  As  she  extin 
guished  the  candle  and  stole  from  the  room,  all 
the  pupae  of  the  Death's  Head  began  to  squeak 
in  the  darkness. 

The  student-gardener  could  do  no  more 
work  for  the  present.  He  lay  propped  up  in 
bed,  pasty,  scarlet  lipped,  and  he  seemed  bald 
and  lidless,  so  colourless  were  hair  and  eye 
lashes. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you,  Karl?"  asked 
Maryette,  coming  in  for  a  moment  as  usual  in 
the  intervals  of  her  many  duties. 

"The  ink,  if  you  would  be  so  condescending 
— and  a  pen,"  he  said,  watching  her  out  of 
hollow,  sallow  eyes  of  watery  blue. 

She  fetched  both  from  the  cafe. 

She  came  again  in  another  hour,  knocking 
at  his  door,  but  he  said  rather  sharply  that 
he  wished  to  sleep. 

Scarcely  noticing  the  querulous  tone,  she 
departed.  She  had  much  to  do  besides  her  du 
ties  in  the  belfry.  Her  father  was  an  invalid 

281 


BARBARIANS 


who  required  constant  care;  there  was  only 
one  servant,  an  old  peasant  woman  who  cooked. 
The  Government  required  her  father  to  keep 
open  the  "White  Doe  Tavern,  and  there  was 
always  a  little  business  from  the  scanty  garri 
son  of  Sainte  Lesse,  always  a  few  meals  to  get, 
a  few  drinks  to  serve,  and  nobody  now  to  do 
it  except  herself. 

Then,  in  the  belfry  she  had  duties  other  than 
playing,  than  practice.  Always  at  night  the 
clock-drum  was  to  be  wound. 

She  had  no  assistant.  The  town  maintained 
none,  and  her  salary  as  Mistress  of  the  Bells 
of  Sainte  Lesse  did  not  permit  her  to  engage 
anybody  to  help  her. 

So  she  oiled  and  wound  all  the  machinery 
herself,  adjusted  and  cared  for  the  clock,  swept 
the  keyboard  clean,  inspected  and  looked  after 
the  wires  leading  to  the  tiers  of  bells  over 
head. 

Then  there  was  work  to  do  in  the  garden — 
a  few  minutes  snatched  between  other  duties. 
And  when  night  arrived  at  last  she  was  rather 
tired — quite  weary  on  this  night  in  particular, 

282 


THE   SUSPECT 


having  managed  to  fulfill  all  the  duties  of  the 
sick  youth  as  well  as  her  own. 

The  night  was  warm  and  fragrant.  She 
sat  in  the  dark  at  her  open  window  for  a  while, 
looking  out  into  the  north  where,  along  the 
horizon,  heat  lightning  seemed  to  play.  But 
it  was  only  the  reflected  flashes  of  the  guns. 
"When  the  wind  was  right,  she  could  hear 
them. 

She  had  even  managed  to  write  to  her  lover. 
Now,  seated  beside  the  open  window,  she  was 
thinking  of  him.  A  dreamy,  happy  lethargy 
possessed  her;  she  was  on  the  first  delicate 
verge  of  slumber,  so  close  to  it  that  all  earthly 
sounds  were  dying  out  in  her  ears.  Then,  sud 
denly,  she  was  awake,  listening. 

A  window  had  been  opened  in  the  room 
overhead. 

She  went  to  the  stars  and  called: 

"Karl !" 

"What?"  came  the  impatient  reply. 

"Are  you  ill!" 

"No.  N-no,  I  thank  you — "  His  voice  be 
came  urbane  with  an  apparent  effort.  "Thank 
you  for  inquiring " 

283 


BARBARIANS 


"I  heard  your  window  open —  '  she  said. 

"Thank  you.  I  am  quite  well.  The  air  is 
mild  and  grateful.  ...  I  thank  mademoiselle 
for  her  solicitude." 

She  returned  to  her  room  and  lighted  her 
candle.  On  the  white  plaster  wall  sat  the 
Death's  Head  moth. 

She  had  not  been  in  her  room  all  day.  She 
was  astonished  that  the  moth  had  not  left. 

"Shall  I  have  to  put  you  out?"  she  thought 
dubiously.  "Keally,  I  can  not  keep  my  window 
closed  for  fear  of  visitors  for  you,  Madam 
Death !  I  certainly  shall  be  obliged  to  put  you 
out." 

So  she  found  a  sheet  of  paper  and  a  large 
glass  tumbler.  Over  the  moth  she  placed  the 
tumbler,  then  slipped  the  sheet  of  paper  under 
the  glass  between  moth  and  wall. 

The  thing  cried  and  cried,  beating  at  the 
glass  with  wings  as  powerful  as  a  bird's,  and 
the  girl,  startled  and  slightly  repelled,  placed 
the  moth  on  her  night  table,  imprisoned  under 
the  tumbler. 

For  a  while  it  fluttered  and  flapped  and 
cried  out  in  its  strange,  uncanny  way,  then 

284 


THE   SUSPECT 


settled  on  the  sheet  of  paper,  quivering  its 
wings,  both  eyes  like  living  coals. 

Seated  on  the  bedside,  Maryette  looked  at  it, 
schooling  herself  to  think  of  it  kindly  as  one 
of  God's  creatures  before  she  released  it  at 
her  open  window. 

And,  as  she  sat  there,  something  came  whiz 
zing  into  the  room  through  her  window,  cir 
cled  around  her  at  terrific  speed  with  a  hum 
ming,  whispering  whirr,  then  dropped  with  a 
solid  thud  on  the  night  table  beside  the  im 
prisoned  female  moth. 

It  was  the  first  suitor  arrived  from  outer 
darkness — a  big,  powerful  Death's  Head  moth 
with  eyes  aglow,  the  yellow  skull  displayed  in 
startling  contrast  on  his  velvet-black  body. 

The  girl  watched  him,  fascinated.  He  scram 
bled  over  to  the  tumbler,  tested  it  with  heavy 
antennae;  then,  ardent  and  impatient,  beat 
against  the  glass  with  muscular  wings  that 
clattered  in  the  silence. 

But  it  was  not  the  amorous  fury  of  the- 
creature  striking  the  tumbler  with  resounding 
wings,  not  the  glowing  eyes,  the  strong,  clawed 
feet,  the  Death's  Head  staring  from  its  fune- 

285 


real  black  thorax  that  held  the  girl's  attention. 
It  was  something  else;  something  entirely  dif 
ferent  riveted  her  eyes  on  the  creature. 

For  the  cigar-shaped  body,  instead  of  bear 
ing  the  naked  ribs  of  a  skeleton,  was  snow 
white. 

And  now  she  began  to  understand.  Some 
body  had  already  caught  the  moth,  had 
wrapped  around  its  body  a  cylinder  of  white 
tissue  paper — tied  it  on  with  a  fine,  white 
silk  thread. 

The  moth  was  very  still  now,  exploring  the 
interstices  between  tumbler  and  table  with 
heavy,  pectinated  antennae. 

Cautiously  Maryette  bent  forward  and 
dropped  both  hands  on  the  moth. 

Instantly  the  creature  cried  out  horribly;  it 
was  like  a  mouse  between  her  shrinking  fin 
gers;  but  she  slipped  the  cylinder  of  tissue 
paper  from  its  abdomen  and  released  it  with 
a  shiver;  and  it  darted  and  whizzed  around  the 
room,  gyrating  in  whistling  circles  around  her 
head  until,  unnerved,  she  struck  at  it  again 
and  again  with  empty  hands,  following,  driv- 

286 


THE   SUSPECT 


ing  it  toward  the  open  window,  out  of  which 
it  suddenly  darted. 

But  now  there  was  another  Death's  Head  in 
the  room,  a  burly,  headlong,  infatuated  male 
which  drove  headlong  at  the  tumbler  and  clung 
to  it,  slipping,  sliding,  filling  the  room  with 
a  feathery  tattoo  of  wings. 

It,  also,  had  a  snow-white  body;  and  before 
she  had  seized  the  squeaking  thing  and  had 
slipped  the  tissue  wrapper  from  its  body,  an 
other  Death's  Head  whirred  through  the  win 
dow  ;  then  another,  then  two ;  then  others.  The 
room  swarmed;  they  were  crawling  all  over 
the  tumbler,  the  table,  the  bed.  The  room 
was  filled  with  the  soft,  velvety  roar  of  whir 
ring  wings  beating  on  wall  and  ceiling  and 
against  the  tumbler  where  Madam  Death  sat 
imprisoned,  quivering  her  wings,  her  eyes  two 
molten  rubies,  and  the  ghastly  skull  staring 
from  her  back. 

How  Maryette  ever  brought  herself  to  do  it ; 
how  she  did  it  at  last,  she  had  no  very  clear 
idea.  The  touch  of  the  slippery,  mousy  bodies 
was  fearsomely  repugnant  to  her;  the  very 
sight  of  the  great,  skull-bearing  things  began 

287 


BARBARIANS 


to  sicken  her  physically.  A  dreadful,  almost 
impalpable  floss  from  their  handled  wings  and 
bodies  smeared  her  hands;  the  place  vibrated 
with  their  tiny  goblin  cries. 

Somehow  she  managed  to  strip  them  of  the 
tissue  cylinders,  drive  them  from  where  they 
crawled  on  ceiling,  wall  and  sill  into  whistling 
flight.  Amid  a  whirlwind  of  wings  she  fought 
them  toward  the  open  window;  whizzing,  flit 
ting,  circling  they  sped  in  widening  spirals  to 
escape  her  blows,  where  she  stood  half  blinded 
in  the  vortex  of  the  ghostly  maelstrom. 

One  by  one  they  darted  through  the  open 
window  out  into  the  night;  and  wrhen  the  last 
spectral  streak  of  grey  had  sped  into  outer 
darkness  the  girl  slammed  the  windowpanes 
shut  and  leaned  against  the  sill  enervated,  ex 
hausted,  revolted. 

The  room  was  misty  with  the  microscopic 
dust  from  the  creatures'  wings;  on  her  palms 
and  fingers  were  black  stains  and  stains  of 
livid  orange;  and  across  wall  and  ceiling 
streaks  and  smudges  of  rusty  colour. 

She  was  still  trembling  when  she  washed  the 
smears  from  her  hands.  Her  fingers  were 

288 


THE   SUSPECT 


still  unsteady  as  she  smoothed  out  each  tiny 
sheet  of  tissue  paper  and  laid  it  on  her  night 
table.  Then,  seated  on  the  bed's  edge  beside 
the  lighted  candle,  she  began  to  read  the  mes 
sages  written  in  ink  on  these  frail,  translucent 
tissue  missives. 

Every  bit  of  tissue  bore  a  message ;  the  writ 
ing  was  microscopic,  the  script  German,  the 
language  Flemish.  Slowly,  with  infinite  pains, 
the  little  bell-mistress  of  Sainte  Lesse  trans 
lated  to  herself  each  message  as  she  deci 
phered  it. 

She  was  trembling  more  than  ever  when  she 
finished.  Every  trace  of  colour  had  fled  from 
her  cheeks. 

Then,  as  she  sat  there,  struggling  to  keep 
her  mind  clear  of  the  horror  of  the  thing, 
striving  to  understand  what  was  to  be  done, 
there  came  upon  her  window  pane  a  sudden 
muffled  drumming  sound,  and  her  frightened 
gaze  fell  upon  a  Death's  Head  moth  outside, 
its  eyes  like  coals,  its  misty  wings  beating 
furiously  for  admittance.  And  around  its  body 
was  tied  a  cylinder  of  white  tissue. 

But  the  girl  needed  no  more  evidence.    The 

289 


BARBARIANS 


wretched  youth  in  the  room  overhead  had  al 
ready  sealed  his  own  doom  with  any  one  of 
these  tissue  cylinders.  Better  for  him  if  the 
hemorrhage  had  slain  him.  Now  a  firing  squad 
must  do  that  much  for  him. 

Yet,  even  still,  the  girl  hesitated,  almost 
incredulous,  trying  to  comprehend  the  mon 
strous  grotesquerie  of  the  abominable  plot. 

Intuition  pointed  to  the  truth;  logic  proved 
it;  somewhere  in  the  German  trenches  a  com 
rade  of  this  spy  was  awaiting  these  messages 
with  a  caged  Death's  Head  female  as  the  bait 
— a  living  loadstone  wearing  the  terrific  em 
blems  of  death — an  unfailing  magnet  to  draw 
the  skull-bearing  messengers  for  miles — had  it 
not  been  that  a  nearer  magnet  deflected  them 
in  their  flight! 

That  was  it!  That  was  what  the  miserable 
youth  upstairs  had  not  counted  on.  Chance 
had  ruined  him ;  destiny  had  sent  Madam  Death 
into  the  room  below  him  to  draw,  with  her 
macabre  charms,  every  ardent  winged  mes 
senger  which  he  liberated  from  his  bedroom 
window. 

The  subtle  effluvia  permeating  the  night  air 
290 


THE   SUSPECT 


for  miles  around  might  have  guided  these  mes 
sengers  into  the  German  trenches  had  not  a 
nearer  and  more  imperious  perfume  annihi 
lated  it.  Headlong,  amorous,  impatient  they 
had  whirled  toward  the  embraces  of  Madam 
Death;  the  nearer  and  more  powerful  perfume 
had  drawn  the  half-maddened,  half-drugged 
messengers.  The  spy  in  the  room  upstairs, 
like  many  Germans,  had  reasoned  wrongly  on 
sound  premises.  His  logic  had  broken  down, 
not  his  amazing  scientific  foundation.  His 
theory  was  correct;  his  application  stupid. 

And  now  this  young  man  was  about  to  die. 
Maryette  understood  that.  She  comprehended 
that  his  death  was  necessary;  that  it  was  the 
unavoidable  sequence  of  what  he  had  at 
tempted  to  do.  Trapped  rats  must  be  drowned ; 
vermin  exterminated  by  easiest  and  quickest 
methods;  spies  who  betray  one's  native  land 
pass  naturally  the  same  route. 

But  this  thing,  this  grotesque,  incredible,  ter 
rible  attempt  to  engraft  treachery  on  one  of 
nature's  most  amazing  laws — this  secret,  cun 
ning  Teutonic  reasoning,  this  scientific  scoun- 
drelism,  this  criminal  enterprise  based  on  pa- 

291 


BARBARIANS 


tient,  plodding  and  German  efficiency,  still  be 
wildered  the  girl. 

And  yet  she  vaguely  realized  how  science  had 
been  already  prostituted  to  Prussian  malig 
nancy  and  fury;  she  had  heard  of  flame  jets, 
of  tear-bombs,  of  bombs  containing  deadly 
germs;  she  herself  had  beheld  the  poison  gas 
rolling  back  into  the  trenches  at  Nivelle  under 
the  town  tower.  Dimly  she  began  to  under 
stand  that  the  Hun,  in  his  cunning  savagery, 
had  tricked,  betrayed  and  polluted  civilization 
itself  into  lending  him  her  own  secrets  with 
which  she  was  ultimately  to  be  destroyed. 

The  very  process  of  human  thinking  had 
been  imitated  by  these  monkeys  of  Europe — 
apes  with  the  ferocity  of  hogs — and  no  souls, 
none — nothing  to  lift  them  inside  the  pale 
where  dwells  the  human  race. 

There  came  a  rapping  on  the  cafe  door. 
The  girl  rose  wearily;  an  immense  weight 
seemed  to  crush  her  shoulders  so  that  her 
knees  had  become  unsteady. 

She  opened  the  cafe  door;  it  was  Sticky 
Smith,  come  for  his  nightcap  before  turn 
ing  in. 

292 


THE   SUSPECT 


"The  man  upstairs  is  a  German  spy,"  she 
said  listlessly.  "Had  you  not  better  go  over 
and  get  a  gendarme?" 

"Who's  a  spy?  That  Dutch  shrimp  you  had 
in  your  garden?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  is  he?"  demanded  the  muleteer  with 
an  oath. 

She  placed  her  lighted  candle  on  the  bar. 

"Wait,"  she  said.  "Bead  these  first — we 
must  be  quite  certain  about  what  we  do." 

She  laid  the  squares  of  tissue  paper  out  on 
the  bar. 

"Do  you  read  Flemish?"   she  whispered. 

"No,  ma'am " 

"Then  I  will  translate  into  French  for  you. 
And  first  of  all  I  must  tell  you  how  I  came  to 
possess  these  little  letters  written  upon  tissue. 
Please  listen  attentively." 

He  rested  his  palm  on  the  butt  of  his  dan 
gling  automatic. 

"Go  on,"  he  said. 

She  told  him  the  circumstances. 

As  she  commenced  to  translate  the  tissue 
paper  messages  in  a  low,  tremulous  voice,  the 
20  293 


BARBARIANS 


sound  of  a  door  being  closed  and  locked  in 
the  room  overhead  silenced  her. 

The  next  instant  she  had  stepped  out  to  the 
stairs  and  called: 

"Karl!" 

There  was  no  reply.  Smith  came  out  to  the 
stair-well  and  listened. 

"It  is  his  custom,"  she  whispered,  "to  lock 
his  door  before  retiring.  That  is  what  we 
heard." 

"Call  again." 

"He  can't  hear  me.    He  is  in  bed." 

"Call,  all  the  same." 

"Karl!"  she  cried  out  in  an  unsteady  voice. 


CHAPTER   XYTTT 

MADAM    DEATH 

There  was  no  reply,  because  the  young  man 
was  hanging  out  over  his  window  sill  in  the 
darkness  trying  to  switch  away,  from  her 
closed  window  below,  the  big,  clattering 
Death's  Head  moth  which  obstinately  and  per 
sistently  fluttered  there. 

What  possessed  the  moth  to  continue  bat 
tering  its  wings  at  the  window  of  the  room  be 
low?  Had  the  other  moths  which  he  released 
done  so,  too?  They  had  darted  out  of  his 
room  into  the  night,  each  garnished  with  a 
tissue  robe.  He  supposed  they  had  flown 
north;  he  had  not  looked  out  to  see. 

What  had  gone  wrong  with  this  moth,  then? 

He  took  his  emaciated  blond  head  between 
his  bony  fingers  and  pondered,  probing  for 
reason  with  German  thoroughness — that  cele- 

295 


BARBARIANS 


brated  thoroughness  which  is  invariably  rid 
dled  with  flaws. 

Of  all  contingencies  he  had  thought — or  so 
it  seemed  to  him.  He  could  not  recollect  any 
precaution  neglected.  He  had  come  to  Sainte 
Lesse  for  a  clearly  defined  object  and  to  make 
certain  reports  concerning  matters  of  interest 
to  the  German  military  authorities  north  of 
Nivelle. 

The  idea,  inspired  by  the  experiments  of 
Henri  Fabre,  was  original  with  him.  Patient 
ly,  during  the  previous  year,  he  had  worked 
it  out — had  proved  his  theory  by  a  series  of 
experiments  with  moths  of  this  species. 

He  had  arranged  with  his  staff  comrade, 
Dr.  Gliick,  for  a  forced  hatching  of  the  pupae 
which  the  latter  had  patiently  bred  from  the 
enormous  green  and  violet-banded  caterpillars. 

At  least  one  female  Death's  Head  must  be 
ready,  caged  in  the  trenches  beyond  Nivelle. 
Hundreds  of  pupae  could  not  have  died.  Where, 
then,  was  his  error — if,  indeed,  he  had  made 
any? 

Leaning  from  the  window,  he  looked  down 
296 


MADAM   DEATH 


at  the  frantic  moth,  perplexed,  a  little  uneasy 
now. 

"Swine!"  he  muttered.  "What,  then,  ails  you 
that  you  do  not  fly  to  the  mistress  awaiting 
you  over  yonder?" 

He  could  see  the  cylinder  of  white  tissue 
shining  on  the  creature's  body,  where  it  flut 
tered  against  the  pane,  illuminated  by  the  rays 
of  the  candle  from  within  the  young  girl's 
room. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  the  candle-light 
was  proving  the  greater  attraction? 

Even  as  the  possibility  entered  his  mind,  he 
saw  another  Death's  Head  dart  at  the  window 
below  and  join  the  first  one.  But  this  new 
comer  wore  no  tissue  jacket. 

Then,  out  of  the  darkness  the  Death's  Heads 
began  to  come  to  the  window  below,  swarms  of 
them,  startling  him  with  the  racket  of  their 
wings. 

From  where  did  they  arrive!  They  could 
not  be  the  moths  he  liberated.  But.  .  .  .  Were 
they?  Had  some  accident  robbed  their  bodies 
of  the  tissue  missives?  Had  they  blundered 
into  somebody's  room  and  been  robbed? 

297 


Mystified,  uneasy,  he  hung  over  his  window 
sill,  staring  with  sickening  eyes  at  the  winged 
tumult  below. 

With  patient,  plodding  logic  he  began  to 
seek  for  the  solution.  What  attracted  these 
moths  to  the  room  below?  Was  it  the  candle 
light?  That  alone  could  not  be  sufficient — 
could  not  contend  with  the  more  imperious 
attraction,  the  subtle  effluvia  stealing  out  of 
the  north  and  appealing  to  the  ruling  passion 
which  animated  the  frantic  winged  things  be 
low  him. 

Patiently,  methodically  in  his  mind  he  probed 
about  for  some  clue  to  the  solution.  The  rul 
ing  passion  animating  the  feathery  whirlwind 
below  was  the  necessity  for  mating  and  per 
petuating  the  species. 

That  was  the  dominant  passion;  the  lure 
of  candle-light  a  secondary  attraction.  .  .  . 
Then,  if  this  were  so — and  it  had  been  proven 
to  be  a  fact — then — then — what  was  in  that 
young  girl's  bedroom  just  below  him? 

Even  as  the  question  flashed  in  his  mind 
he  left  the  window,  went  to  his  door,  listened, 
noiselessly  unlocked  it. 

298 


A  low  murmur  of  voices  came  from  the 
cafe. 

He  drew  off  both  shoes,  descended  the  stairs 
on  the  flat  pads  of  his  large,  bony  feet,  listen 
ing  all  the  while. 

Candle-light  streamed  out  into  the  corridor 
from  her  open  bedroom  door;  and  he  crept  to* 
the  sill  and  peered  in,  searching  the  place  with 
small,  pale  eyes. 

At  first  he  noticed  nothing  to  interest  him, 
then,  all  in  an  instant,  his  gaze  fell  upon 
Madam  Death  under  her  prison  of  glass. 

There  she  sat,  her  great  bulging  abdomen 
distended  with  eggs,  her  lambent  eyes  shining 
with  the  terrible  passion  of  anticipation.  For 
one  thing  only  she  had  been  created.  That 
accomplished  she  died.  And  there  she  crouched 
awaiting  the  fulfillment  of  her  life's  cycle  with 
the  blazing  eyes  of  a  demon. 

From  the  cafe  below  came  the  cautious  mur 
mur  of  voices.  The  young  man  already  knew 
what  they  were  whispering  about;  or,  if  he 
did  not  know  he  no  longer  cared. 

The  patches  of  bright  colour  in  his  sunken 
299 


cheeks  had  died  out  in  an  ashen  pallor.  As 
far  as  he  was  concerned  the  world  was  now 
ended.  And  he  knew  it. 

He  went  into  the  bedroom  and  sat  down 
on  the  bed's  edge.  His  little,  pale  eyes  wan 
dered  about  the  white  room;  the  murmur  of 
voices  below  was  audible  all  the  while. 

After  a  few  moments'  patient  waiting,  his 
gaze  rested  again  on  Madam  Death,  squatting 
there  with  wings  sloped,  and  the  skull  and 
bones  staring  at  him  from  her  head  and  dis 
tended  abdomen. 

After  all  there  was  an  odd  resemblance  be 
tween  himself  and  Madam  Death.  He  had 
been  born  to  fulfill  one  function,  it  appeared. 
So  had  she.  And  now,  in  his  case  as  in  hers, 
death  was  immediately  to  follow.  This  was 
sentirnentj  not  science — the  blind  lobe  of  the 
German  brain  balancing  grotesquely  the  rea 
soning  lobe. 

The  voices  below  had  ceased.  Presently  he 
heard  a  cautious  step  on  the  stair. 

He  had  a  little  pill-box  in  his  pocket.  Me 
thodically,  without  haste,  he  drew  it  out,  chose 

300 


MADAM   DEATH 


one  white  pellet,  and,  holding  it  between  his 
bony  thumb  and  forefinger,  listened. 

Yes,  somebody  was  coming  up  the  stairs, 
very  careful  to  make  no  sound. 

Well — there  were  various  ways  for  a  Death's 
Head  Hussar  to  die  for  his  War  Lord.  All 
were  equally  laudable.  God — the  God  of  Ger 
many — the  celestial  friend  and  comrade  of  his 
War  Lord — would  presently  correct  him  if  he 
was  transgressing  military  discipline  or  the  eti 
quette  of  Kultur.  As  for  the  levelled  rifles  of 
the  execution  squad,  he  preferred  another  way. 
.  .  .  This  way!  .  .  . 

His  eyes  were  already  glazing  when  the 
burly  form  of  Sticky  Smith  filled  the  door 
way. 

He  looked  down  at  Madam  Death  under  the 
tumbler  beside  him,  then  lifted  his  head  and 
gazed  at  Smith  with  blinded  eyes. 

"Swine!"  he  said  complacently,  swaying 
gently  forward  and  striking  the  floor  with  his 
face. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

BUBBLES 

An  east  wind  was  very  likely  to  bring  gas 
to  the  trenches  north  of  the  Sainte  Lesse  sa 
lient.  A  north  wind,  according  to  season, 
brought  snow  or  rain  or  fog  upon  British, 
French,  Belgian  and  Boche  alike.  Winds  of 
the  south  carried  distant  exhalations  from 
orchards  and  green  fields  into  the  pitted  waste 
of  ashes  where  that  monstrous  desolation 
stretched  away  beneath  a  thundering  iron  rain 
which  beat  all  day,  all  night  upon  the  dead 
flesh  of  the  world. 

But  the  west  wind  was  the  vital  wind,  flow 
ing  melodiously  through  the  trees — a  clean, 
aromatic,  refreshing  wind,  filling  the  sickened 
world  with  life  again. 

Sometimes,  too,  it  brought  the  pleasant 
music  of  the  bells  into  far-away  trenches,  when 

302 


BUBBLES 


the  little  bell-mistress  of  Sainte  Lesse  played 
the  carillon.  And  when  her  friend,  the  great 
bell,  Bayard,  spoke  through  the  resounding  sky 
of  France  to  a  million  men-at-arms  in  blue 
and  steel,  who  were  steadily  forging  hell's 
manacles  for  the  uncaged  Hun,  the  loyal  west 
ern  wind  carried  far  beyond  the  trenches  an 
ominous  iron  vibration  that  meant  doom  for 
the  Beast. 

And  the  Beast  heard,  leering  skyward  out 
of  pale  pig-eyes,  but  did  not  comprehend. 

At  the  base  corral  down  in  the  meadow, 
mules  had  been  scarce  recently,  because  a 
transport  had  been  torpedoed.  But  the  next 
transport  from  New  Orleans  escaped;  the 
dusty  column  had  arrived  at  Sainte  Lesse  from 
the  Channel  port,  convoyed  by  American  mule 
teers,  as  usual;  new  mules,  new  negroes,  new 
Yankee  faces  invaded  the  town  once  more. 

However,  it  signified  little  to  the  youthful 
mistress  -  of  -  the  -  bells,  Maryette  Courtray, 
called  "Carillonnette,"  for  her  Yankee  lover 
still  lay  in  his  distant  hospital — her  muleteer, 
"Djack."  So  mules  might  bray,  and  negroes 
fill  the  Sainte  Lesse  meadows  with  their  shout- 

303 


BARBARIANS 


ing  laughter;  and  the  lank,  hawk-nosed  Yankee 
muleteers  might  saunter  clanking  into  the 
White  Doe  in  search  of  meat  or  drink  or 
tobacco,  or  a  glimpse  of  the  pretty  bell-mis 
tress,  for  all  it  meant  to  her. 

Her  Djack  lived;  that  was  what  occupied 
her  mind;  other  men  were  merely  men — even 
his  comrades,  Sticky  Smith  and  Kid  Glenn, 
assumed  individuality  to  distinguish  them 
from  other  men  only  because  they  were  Djack's 
friends.  And  as  for  all  other  muleteers,  they 
seemed  to  her  as  alike  as  Chinamen,  leaving 
upon  her  young  mind  a  general  impression 
of  long,  thin  legs  and  necks  and  the  keen 
eyes  of  hunting  falcons. 

She  had  washing  to  do  that  morning.  Very 
early  she  climbed  up  into  the  ancient  belfry, 
wound  the  drum  so  that  the  bells  would  play 
a  few  bars  at  the  quarters  and  before  each 
hour  struck;  and  also  in  order  that  the  carillon 
might  ring  mechanically  at  noon  in  case  she 
had  not  returned  to  take  her  place  at  the  key 
board  with  her  wooden  gloves. 

There  was  a  light  west  wind  rippling  through 
804 


BUBBLES 

the  tree  tops;  and  everywhere  sunshine  lay 
brilliant  on  pasture  and  meadow  under  the 
purest  of  cobalt  skies. 

In  the  garden  her  crippled  father,  swathed 
in  shawls,  dozed  in  his  deep  chair  beside  the 
river-wall,  waking  now  and  then  to  watch  the 
quill  on  his  long  bamboo  fish-pole,  stemming 
the  sparkling  current  of  the  little  river  Lesse. 

Sticky  Smith,  off  duty  and  having  filled  him 
self  to  repletion  with  cafe-au-lait  at  the  inn, 
volunteered  to  act  as  nurse,  attendant,  re 
mover  of  fish  and  baiter  of  hook,  while  Mary- 
ette  was  absent  at  the  stone-rimmed  pool  where 
the  washing  of  all  Sainte  Lesse  laundry  had 
been  accomplished  for  hundreds  of  years. 

"You  promise  not  to  go  away?"  she  cau 
tioned  him  in  the  simple,  first-aid  French  she 
employed  in  speaking  to  him,  and  pausing  with 
both  arms  raised  to  balance  the  loaded  clothes- 
basket  on  her  head. 

"Wee — wee!"  he  assured  her  with  dignity. 
"Je  fume  mong  peep!  Je  regard  le  vieux 
pecher.  Voo  poovay  allay,  Mademoiselle 
Maryette." 

305 


BARBARIANS 


She  hesitated,  then  removed  the  basket  from 
her  head  and  set  it  on  the  grass. 

"You  are  very  kind,  Monsieur  Steek-Smeet. 
I  shall  wash  your  underwear  the  very  first 
garments  I  take  out  of  my  basket.  Thank 
you  a  thousand  times."  She  bent  over  with 
sweet  solicitude  and  pressed  her  lips  to  her 
father's  withered  cheek: 

"Au  revoir,  my  father  cheri.  An  hour  or 
two  at  the  meadow-lavoir  and  I  shall  return 
to  find  thee.  Bonne  chance,  mon  pere!  Thou 
shalt  surely  catch  a  large  and  beautiful  fish 
for  luncheon  before  I  return  with  my  wash." 

She  swung  the  basket  of  wash  to  her  head 
again  without  effort,  and  went  her  way,  fol 
lowing  the  deeply  trodden  Bheep-path  behind 
the  White  Doe  Inn. 

The  path  wound  down  through  a  sloping  pas 
ture,  across  a  footbridge  spanning  an  arm  of 
the  Lesse  which  washed  the  base  of  the  garden 
wall,  then  ascended  a  gentle  aclivity  among 
hazel  thicket  and  tall  sycamores,  becoming  for 
a  little  distance  a  shaded  wood-path  where 
thrushes  sang  ceaselessly  in  the  sun-flecked 
undergrowth. 

306 


BUBBLES 

But  at  the  eastern  edge  of  the  copse  the  little 
hill  fell  away  into  an  open,  sunny  meadow, 
fragrant  with  wild-flowers  and  clover,  through 
which  a  rivulet  ran  deep  and  cold  between 
grassy  banks. 

It  supplied  the  drinking  water  of  Sainte 
Lesse ;  and  a  branch  of  it  poured  bubbling  into 
the  stone-rimmed  lavoir  where  generations  of 
Sainte  Lesse  maids  had  scrubbed  the  linen  of 
the  community,  kneeling  there  amid  wild  flow 
ers  and  fluttering  butterflies  in  the  shade  of 
three  tall  elms. 

There  was  nobody  at  the  pool;  Maryette 
saw  that  as  she  came  out  of  the  hazel  copse 
through  the  meadow.  And  very  soon  she  was 
on  her  knees  at  the  clear  pool's  edge,  bare  of 
arm  and  throat  and  bosom,  her  blue  wool 
skirts  trussed  up,  and  elbow  deep  in  snowy 
suds. 

Overhead  the  sky  was  a  quivering,  royal 
blue;  the  earth  shimmered  in  its  bath  of  sun 
shine;  the  west  wind  blowing  carried  away 
eastward  the  reverberations  of  the  distant 
cannonade,  so  that  not  even  the  vibration  of 
the  concussions  disturbed  Sainte  Lesse. 

307 


BARBARIANS 


A  bullfinch  was  piping  lustily  in  a  young 
tree  as  she  began  her  task;  a  blackbird  an 
swered  from  somewhere  among  the  hawthorns 
with  a  bewildering  series  of  complicated  trills. 

As  the  little  mistress-of-the-bells  scrubbed 
and  beat  the  clothes  with  her  paddle,  and 
rinsed  and  wrung  them  and  soaped  them 
afresh,  she  sang  softly  under  her  breath,  to 
an  ancient  air  of  her  pays,  words  that  she 
improvised  to  fit  it — vrai  chanson  de  laveuse: 

"A  blackbird  whistles 

I  love! 

Over  the  thistles 
Butterflies  hover, 
Each  with  her  lover 

In  love. 
Blue  Demoiselles  that  glisten, 

Listen,  I  love! 
"Wind  of  the  west,  oh,  listen, 

I  am  in  love! 

Sing  my  song,  ye  little  gold  bees! 
Opal  bubbles  around  my  knees 
All  afloat  in  the  soap-sud  broth, 
"Whisper  it  low  to  the  snowy  froth ; 
And  Thou  who  rulest  the  skies  above, 
Mary,  adored — I  love — I  love!" 

Slap-slap!  went  her  paddle;  the  sud-spume 
flew  like  shreds  of  cotton;  iridescent  foam  set 

308 


BUBBLES 

with  bubbles  swirled  in  the  stone-edged  basin, 
constantly  swept  away  down  stream  by  the 
current,  constantly  renewed  as  she  soaped  and 
scrubbed,  kneeling  there  in  the  meadow  grass 
above  the  pool. 

The  blackbird  came  quite  near  to  watch  her; 
the  bullfinch,  attracted  by  her  childish  voice 
as  she  sang  the  song  she  was  making,  whistled 
bold  response,  silent  only  when  the  echoing 
slap  of  the  paddle  startled  him  where  he  sat 
on  the  trembling  tip  of  an  aspen. 

Blue  dragon  flies  drifted  on  glimmering 
wings ;  she  put  them  into  her  song ;  the  meadow 
was  gay  with  butterflies'  painted  wings;  she 
sang  about  them,  too.  Cloud  and  azure  sky, 
tree  tops  and  clover,  the  tiny  rivulet  dancing 
through  deep  grasses,  the  wind  furrowing  the 
fields,  all  these  she  put  into  her  cJiansonnette 
de  laveuse.  And  always  in  the  clear  glass  of 
the  stream  she  seemed  to  see  the  smiling  face 
of  her  friend,  Djack — her  lover  who  had 
opened  her  eyes  of  a  child  to  all  things  beauti 
ful  in  the  world. 

Once  or  twice,  from  very  far  away,  she 
fancied  she  heard  the  distant  singing  of  the 
21  309 


BARBARIANS 


negro  muleteers  sunning  themselves  down  by 
the  corral.  She  heard,  at  quarter-hour  inter 
vals,  her  bells  melodiously  recording  time  as  it 
sped  by;  then  there  were  intervals  of  that 
sweet  stillness  which  is  but  a  composite  har 
mony  of  summer — the  murmur  of  insects,  the 
whisper  of  leaves  and  water,  capricious  sec 
onds  of  intense  silence,  then  the  hushed  voice 
of  life  exquisitely  audible  again. 

War,  wickedness,  the  rage  and  cruelty  of  the 
Beast — all  the  vile  and  filthy  ferocity  of  the 
ferocious  Swine  of  the  North  became  to  her  as 
unreal  as  a  tragic  legend  half -forgotten.  And 
death  seemed  very  far  away. 

Her  washing  was  done;  the  wet  clothing 
piled  in  her  basket.  Perspiration  powdered 
her  forehead  and  delicate  little  nose. 

Hot,  flushed,  breathing  deeply  and  irregu 
larly  from  her  efforts  under  a  vertical  sun, 
she  stood  erect,  loosening  the  blouse  over  her 
bosom  to  the  breeze  and  pushing  back  the  clus 
tering  masses  of  hair  above  her  brow. 

The  water  laughed  up  at  her,  invitingly;  the 
last  floating  castle  of  white  foam  swept  past 

310 


BUBBLES 


her  feet  down  stream.  On  the  impulse  of  the 
moment  she  unlaced  her  blue  wool  skirt, 
dropped  it  around  her  feet,  stepped  from  it; 
unbuckled  both  garters,  stripped  slippers  and 
stockings  from  her  feet,  and  waded  out  into 
the  pool. 

The  fresh,  delicious  coolness  of  the  water 
thrilled  and  encouraged  her  to  further  adven 
ture;  she  twisted  up  her  splendid  hair,  bound 
it  with  her  'blue  kerchief,  flung  blouse  and 
chemisette  from  her,  and  gave  herself  to  the 
sparkling  stream  with  a  sigh  of  ecstasy. 

Alders  swept  the  eastern  edges  of  the  cur 
rent  where  the  rivulet  widened  beyond  the 
basin  and  ran  south  along  the  meadow's  edge 
to  the  Wood  of  Sainte  Lesse — a  cool,  unruffled 
flow,  breast  deep,  floored  with  sand  as  soft  as 
silver  velvet. 

She  waded,  floated,  swam  a  little,  or,  erect, 
roamed  leisurely  along  the  alder  fringe,  ex 
ploring  the  dim  green  haunts  of  frog  and 
water-hen,  stoat  and  becassine — a  slim,  wet 
dryad,  gliding  silently  through  sun  and  dap 
pled  shadow. 

Where   the   stream  comes   to    Sainte   Lesse 

311 


BARBARIANS 


"Wood,  there  is  a  hill  set  thick  with  hazel  and 
clumps  of  fern,  haunted  by  one  roe-deer  and 
numerous  rabbits  and  pheasants. 

She  was  close  to  its  base,  now,  gliding 
through  the  shade  like  some  lithe  creature 
of  the  forest ;  making  no  sound  save  where  the 
current  curled  around  her  supple  body  in 
twisted  necklaces  of  liquid  light. 

Then,  as  she  stood,  peering  cautiously 
through  tangled  branches  for  a  glimpse  of  the 
little  roe-deer,  she  heard  a  curious  sound  up 
on  the  hill — an  inexplicable  sound  like  metal 
striking  stone. 

She  stood  as  though  frozen ;  clink,  clink  came 
the  distant  sound.  Then  all  was  still.  But 
presently  she  saw  a  scared  cock-pheasant, 
crouching  low  with  flattened  neck  outstretched, 
run  like  a  huge  rat  through  the  hazel  growth, 
out  across  the  meadow. 

She  remained  motionless,  scarcely  daring  to 
draw  her  breath.  Somebody  had  passed  over 
the  hill — if,  indeed,  he  or  she  had  actually  con 
tinued  on  their  mysterious  way.  Had  they? 
But  finally  the  intense  quiet  reassured  her,  and 
she  concluded  that  whoever  had  made  that 

312 


metallic  sound  had  continued  on  toward  Sainte 
Lesse  Wood. 

She  had  taken  with  her  a  cake  of  soap. 
Now,  here  in  the  green  shade,  she  made  her 
ablutions,  soaping  herself  from  head  to  foot, 
turning  her  head  leisurely  from  time  to  time 
to  survey  her  leafy  environment,  or  watch  the 
flight  of  some  tiny  woodland  bird,  or  study 
with  pretty  and  speculative  eyes  the  soap-suds 
swirling  in  a  dimpled  whirlpool  around  her 
thighs. 

The  bubbles  fascinated  her;  she  played  with 
them,  capriciously,  touching  one  here,  one 
there,  with  tentative  finger  to  see  them  explode 
in  a  tiny  rainbow  shower. 

Finally  she  chose  a  hollow  stem  from  among 
a  cluster  of  scented  rushes,  cleared  it  with  a 
vigorous  breath,  soaped  one  end,  and,  touch 
ing  it  to  the  water,  blew  from  it  a  prodigious 
bubble,  all  swimming  with  gold  and  purple 
hues. 

Into  the  air  she  tossed  it,  from  the  end  of 
the  hollow  reed;  the  breeze  caught  it  and 
wafted  it  upward  until  it  burst. 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened!    Before  her 

313 


BARBARIANS 


upturned  eyes  another  bubble  slowly  arose 
from  a  clump  of  aspens  out  of  the  hazel  thick 
ets  on  the  hill — a  big,  pearl-tinted,  translucent 
bubble,  as  large  as  a  melon.  Upward  it  floated, 
slowly  ascending  to  the  tree-tops.  There  the 
wind  caught  it,  drove  it  east,  but  it  still 
mounted  skyward,  higher,  higher,  sailing  al 
ways  eastward,  until  it  dwindled  to  the  size 
of  a  thistledown  and  faded  away  in  mid-air. 

Astounded,  the  little  mistress-of-the-bells 
stood  motionless,  waist  deep  in  the  stream,  lips 
parted,  eyes  straining  to  pierce  the  dazzling 
ether  above. 

And  then,  before  her  incredulous  gaze,  an 
other  pearl-tinted,  translucent  bubble  slowly 
floated  upward  from  the  thicket  near  the  asp 
ens,  mounted  until  the  breeze  struck  it,  then 
soared  away  skyward  and  melted  like  a  snow- 
flake  into  the  east. 

Moving  as  stealthily  as  some  sinuous  crea 
ture  of  the  water-weeds,  the  girl  stole  forward, 
threading  her  way  among  the  rushes,  gliding, 
twisting  around  tussock  and  alder,  creeping 
along  fern-set  banks,  her  eyes  ever  focused  on 

314 


BUBBLES 

the  clump  of  aspens  quivering  against  the  sky 
above  the  hazel. 

She  could  see  nobody,  hear  not  a  sound  from 
the  thicket  on  the  little  hill.  But  another  bub 
ble  rose  above  the  aspens  as  she  looked. 

Naked,  she  dared  not  advance  into  the  woods 
— scarcely  dared  linger  where  she  was,  yet 
found  enough  courage  to  creep  out  on  a  car 
pet  of  moss  and  lie  flat  Tinder  a  young  fir, 
listening  and  watching. 

No  more  bubbles  rose  above  the  aspens; 
there  was  not  a  sound,  not  a  movement  in  the 
hazel. 

For  an  hour  or  more  she  lay  there;  then, 
with  infinite  caution,  she  slipped  back  into  the 
stream,  waded  across,  crept  into  the  meadow, 
and  sped  like  a  scared  fawn  along  the  bank 
until  she  stood  panting  by  the  stone-rimmed 
pool  again. 

Sun  and  wind  had  dried  her  skin;  she 
dressed  rapidly,  swung  her  basket  to  her  head, 
and  started  swiftly  for  Sainte  Lesse. 

Before  she  came  in  sight  of  the  White  Doe 
Tavern,  she  could  hear  the  negro  muleteers 
singing  down  by  the  corral. 

315 


BARBARIANS 


Sticky  Smith  still  squatted  in  the  garden 
by  the  river-wall,  smoking  his  pipe.  Her  fa 
ther  lay  asleep  in  his  chair,  his  wrinkled  hands 
still  clasping  the  fishing  pole,  the  warm  breeze 
blowing  his  white  hair  at  the  temples. 

She  disposed  of  the  wash;  then  she  and 
Sticky  Smith  gently  aroused  the  crippled  bell- 
master  and  aided  him  into  the  house. 

The  old  peasant  woman  who  cooked  for  the 
inn  had  soup  ready.  The  noonday  meal  in 
Sainte  Lesse  had  become  an  extremely  simple 
affair. 

"Monsieur  Steek,"  said  the  girl  carelessly, 
"did  you  ever,  as  a  child,  fly  toy  balloons?" 

"Sure,  Maryette.  A  old  Eyetalian  wop  used 
to  come  'round  town  selling  them.  He  had  a 
stick  with  about  a  hundred  little  balloons  tied 
to  it — red,  blue,  green,  yellow — all  kinds  and 
colours.  Whenever  I  had  the  price  I  bought 
one." 

"Did  it  fly?" 

"Yes.  The  gas  in  it  wasn't  much  good  unless 
you  got  a  fresh  one." 

"Would  it  fly  high?" 

316 


BUBBLES 

"Sure.  Sky-high.  I've  seen  'em  go  clean  out 
of  sight  when  you  got  a  fresh  one." 

"Nobody  uses  them  here,  do  they!" 

"Here?  No,  it  wouldn't  be  allowed.  A  spy 
could  send  a  message  by  one  of  those  toy  bal 
loons." 

"Oh,"  nodded  Maryette  thoughtfully. 

Smith  shook  his  head : 

"No,  children  wouldn't  be  permitted  to  play 
with  them  things  now,  Maryette." 

"Then  there  are  not  any  toy  balloons  to  be 
had  here  in  Sainte  Lesse?" 

"I  rather  guess  not!  Farther  north  there 
are." 

"Where?" 

"The  artillery  uses  them." 

"How?" 

"I  don't  know.  The  balloon  and  flying  serv 
ice  use  'em,  too.  I've  seen  officers  send  them 
up.  Probably  it  is  to  find  out  about  upper  air- 
currents." 

"Our  flying  service?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"Ballons  d'essai"  she  nodded  carelessly. 
317 


But  she  was  not  yet  entirely  convinced  regard 
ing  the  theory  she  was  pondering. 

After  lunch  she  continued  to  be  very  busy 
in  the  laundry  for  a  time,  but  the  memory  of 
those  three  little  balloons  above  the  aspens 
troubled  her. 

Smith  had  gone  on  duty  at  the  corral;  Kid 
Glenn  sauntered  clanking  into  the  bar  and  was 
there  regaled  with  a  bock  and  a  tranche. 

"Monsieur  Keed,"  said  Maryette,  "are  any 
of  our  airmen  in  Sainte  Lesse  today?" 

Glenn  drained  his  glass  and  smacked  his 
lips: 

"No,  ma'am,"  he  said. 

"No  balloonists,  either?" 

"I  don't  guess  so,  Maryette.  We've  got  the 
Boche  flyers  scared  stiff.  They  don't  come  over 
our  first  lines  any  more,  and  our  own  people 
are  out  yonder." 

"Keed,"  she  said,  winningly  sweet,  "do  you, 
in  fact,  love  me  a  little — for  D jack's  sake?" 

"Yes'm." 

"I  borrow  of  you  that  automatic  pistol. 
Yes!"  She  smiled  at  him  engagingly. 

318 


BUBBLES 

"Sure.  Anything  you  want!  What's  the 
trouble,  Maryette  I" 

She  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders: 

"Nothing.  It  just  came  into  my  cowardly 
head  that  the  path  to  the  lavoir  is  lonely  at 
sundown.  And  there  are  new  muleteers  in 
Sainte  Lesse.  And  I  must  wash  my  clothes." 

"I  reckon,"  he  said  gravely,  unbuckling  his 
weapon-filled  holster  and  quietly  strapping  it 
around  her  shoulder  with  its  pocketed  belt  of 
clips. 

"You  will  not  require  it  this  afternoon?" 
she  asked. 

"No  fear.  You  won't  either.  Them  mule- 
whacking  coons  is  white." 

She  understood. 

"Some  men  who  seem  whitest  are  blacker 
than  any  negro,"  she  remarked.  "Eh,  bien! 
I  thank  you,  Keed,  mon  ami,  for  your  com 
plaisance.  You  are  very  amiable  to  submit  to 
the  whim  of  a  silly  girl  who  suddenly  becomes 
afraid  of  her  own  shadow." 

Glenn  grinned  and  glanced  significantly  at 
the  cross  dangling  from  her  bosom: 

"Sure,"  he  said,  "your  government  decorates 

319 


BARBARIANS 


cowards.    That's  why  it  gave  you  the  Legion." 
She  blushed  but  looked  up  at  him  seriously: 
"Keed,  if  I  flew  a  little  toy  balloon  in  the 
air,  where  would  the  west  wind  carry  it?" 

"Into  the  Boche  trenches,"  he  replied,  much 
interested  in  the  idea.  "If  you've  got  one, 
we'll  paint  "To  hell  with  Willie'  on  it  and  set 
it  afloat!  But  we'll  have  to  get  permission 
from  the  gendarmes  first." 
She  said,  smiling: 

"I'm  sorry,  but  I  haven't  any  toy  balloons." 
She  picked  up  her  basket  with  its  new  load 
of  soiled  linen,  swung  it  gracefully  to  her 
head,  ignoring  his  offered  assistance,  gave  him 
a  beguiling  glance,  and  went  away  along  the 
sheep-path. 

Once  more  she  followed  the  deep-trodden  and 
ancient  trail  through  copse  and  pasture  and 
over  the  stream  down  into  the  meadow,  where 
the  west  wind  furrowed  the  wild-flowers  and 
the  early  afternoon  sun  fell  hot. 

She  set  her  clothes  to  soak,  laid  paddle 
and  soap  beside  them,  then,  straightening  up, 
remained  erect  on  her  knees,  her  intent  gaze 
fixed  on  the  distant  clump  of  aspens,  delicate 

320 


BUBBLES 


as  inist  above  the  hazel  copse  on  the  little 
hill  beyond. 

It  was  a  whole  hour  before  her  eyes  caught 
the  high  glimmer  of  a  tiny  balloon.  Only 
for  a  moment  was  it  visible  at  that  distance, 
then  it  became  merged  in  the  dazzling  blue 
above  the  woods. 

She  waited.  At  last  she  concluded  that  there 
were  to  be  no  more  balloons.  Then  a  sudden 
fear  assailed  her  lest  she  had  waited  too  long 
to  investigate;  and  she  sprang  to  her  feet, 
hurried  over  the  single  plank  used  as  a  foot 
bridge,  and  sped  down  through  the  alders. 

Here  and  there  a  pheasant  ran  headlong 
across  her  path;  a  rabbit  or  two  scuttled 
through  the  ferns.  Nearing  the  hazel  copse 
she  slackened  speed  and  advanced  with  cau 
tion,  scanning  the  thicket  ahead. 

Suddenly,  on  the  ground  in  front  of  her, 
she  caught  sight  of  a  small  iron  cylinder.  Evi 
dently  it  had  rolled  down  there  from  the  slope 
above. 

Very  gingerly  she  approached  and  picked  it 
up.  It  was  not  very  heavy,  not  too  big  for 
her  skirt  pocket. 

321 


BARBARIANS 


As  she  slipped  it  into  the  pocket  of  her 
blue  woolen  peasant-skirt,  her  quick  eye  caught 
a  movement  among  the  hazel  bushes  on  the 
hillside  to  her  right.  She  sank  to  the  ground 
and  lay  huddled  there. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

KAMERAD 

Down  the  slope,  through  the  thicket,  came  a 
man.  She  could  see  his  legs  only.  He  wore 
dust-coloured  breeches  and  tan  puttees,  like 
Sticky  Smith's  and  Kid  Glenn's,  only  he  wore 
no  big,  clanking  Mexican  spurs. 

The  man  passed  in  front  of  her,  his  burly 
body  barely  visible  through  the  leaves,  but 
not  his  features. 

She  rose,  turned,  ran  over  the  moss,  hur 
ried  through  the  ferns  of  the  warren,  retracing 
her  steps,  and  arrived  breathless  at  the  lavoir. 
And  scarcely  had  she  dropped  to  her  knees 
and  seized  soap  and  paddle,  than  a  squat, 
bronzed,  powerfully  built  young  man  appeared 
on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  stream,  stepping 
briskly  out  of  the  bushes. 

He  did  not  notice  her  at  first.     He  looked 

323 


BARBARIANS 


about  for  a  place  to  jump,  found  one,  leaped 
safely  across,  and  came  on  at  a  swinging  stride 
across  the  meadow. 

The  girl,  bending  above  the  water,  suddenly 
struck  sharply  with  her  paddle. 

Instantly  the  man  halted  in  his  tracks,  knee 
deep  in  clover. 

Maryette,  apparently  unconscious  of  his  pres 
ence,  continued  to  soap  and  scrub  and  slap  her 
wash,  singing  in  her  clear,  untrained  voice  of 
a  child  the  chansonette  she  had  made  that 
morning.  But  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eyes 
she  kept  him  in  view — saw  him  come  saunter 
ing  forward  as  though  reassured,  became 
aware  that  he  had  approached  very  near,  was 
standing  behind  her. 

Turning  presently,  where  she  knelt,  to  pick 
up  another  soiled  garment,  she  suddenly  en 
countered  his  dark  gaze;  and  her  start  and 
slight  exclamation  were  entirely  genuine. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  she  said,  with  offended  empha 
sis,  "one  does  not  approach  people  that  way, 
without  a  word!" 

"Did  I  frighten  mademoiselle?"  he  asked, 
in  recognizable  French,  but  with  an  accent 

324 


KAMERAD 


unpleasantly  familiar  to  her.  "If  I  did,  I  am 
very  sorry  and  I  offer  mademoiselle  a  thou 
sand  excuses  and  apologies." 

The  girl,  kneeling  there  in  the  clover, 
flashed  a  smile  at  him  over  her  shoulder. 
The  quick  colour  reddened  his  face  and  pow 
erful  neck.  The  girl  had  been  right;  her 
smile  had  been  an  answer  that  he  was  not 
going  to  ignore. 

"What  a  pretty  spot  for  a  lavoir"  he  said, 
stepping  to  the  edge  of  the  pool;  "and  what 
a  pretty  girl  to  adorn  it!" 

Maryette  tossed  her  head: 

"Be  pleased  to  pass  your  way,  monsieur. 
Do  you  not  perceive  that  I  am  busy?" 

"It  is  not  impossible  to  exchange  a  polite 
word  or  two  when  people  are  busy,  is  it, 
mademoiselle?"  he  asked,  laughing  and  show 
ing  a  white  and  perfect  set  of  teeth  under  a 
short,  dark  mustache. 

She  continued  to  wring  out  her  wash;  but 
there  was  now  a  slight  smile  on  her  lips. 

"May  I  not  say  who  I  am?"  he  asked  per 
suasively.  "May  I  not  venture  to  speak?" 

"Mon    dieu,   monsieur,    there    is    liberty   of 

22  325 


BARBARIANS 


speech  for  all  in  France.  That  blackbird 
might  be  glad  to  know  your  name  if  you 
choose  to  tell  him." 

"But  I  ask  your  permission  to  speak  to 
you!"  There  seemed  to  be  no  sense  of  hu 
mour  in  this  young  man. 

She  laughed: 

"I  am  not  curious  to  hear  who  you  are! 
.  .  .  But  if  it  affords  you  any  relief  to  ex 
plain  to  the  west  wind  what  your  name  may 
be — "  She  ended  with  a  disdainful  shrug. 
After  a  moment  she  lifted  her  pretty  eyes 
to  his — lovely,  provocative,  tormenting  eyes. 
But  they  were  studying  the  stranger  closely. 

He  was  a  powerfully  built,  dark-skinned 
young  man  in  the  familiar  khaki  of  the  Ameri 
can  muleteers,  wearing  their  insignia,  their 
cap,  their  holster  and  belt,  and  an  extra 
pouch  or  wallet,  loaded  evidently  with  some 
thing  heavy. 

She  said,  coolly: 

"You  must  be  one  of  the  new  Yankee  mule 
teers  who  came  with  that  beautiful  new  herd 
of  mules." 

He  laughed: 

S26 


KAMERAD 


"Yes,  I'm  an  American  muleteer.  My  name 
is  Charles  Braun.  I  came  over  in  the  last 
transport." 

"Yon  know  Steek?" 

"Who?" 

"Steek!     Monsieur  Steekee  Smeete?" 

"Sticky  Smith!" 

"Mais  oui?" 

"I've  met  him/'  he  replied  curtly. 

"And  Monsieur  Keed  Glenn  f 

"I've  met  Kid  Glenn,  too.     Why?" 

"They  are  friends  of  mine — very  intimate 
friends.  Of  course,"  she  added,  nose  up- 
tilted,  "if  they  are  not  also  your  friends,  any 
acquaintance  with  me  will  be  very  difficult 
for  you,  Monsieur  Braun." 

He  laughed  easily  and  seated  himself  on 
the  grass  beside  her;  and,  as  he  sat  down,  a 
metallic  clinking  sounded  in  his  wallet. 

"Tenez"  she  remarked,  "you  carry  old  iron 
and  bottles  about  with  you,  I  notice." 

"Snaffles,  curbs  and  stirrup  irons,"  he  re 
plied  carelessly.  And  in  the  girl's  heart  there 
leaped  the  swift,  fierce  flame  of  certainty  in 
suspicion. 

327 


"Why  do  you  bring  all  that  ironmongery 
down  here?"  she  inquired,  with  frankly  child 
ish  curiosity,  leisurely  wringing  out  her  linen. 

"A  mule  got  away  from  the  corral.  I've 
been  wandering  around  in  the  bushes  trying 
to  find  him,"  he  explained,  so  naturally  and 
in  such  a  friendly  voice  that  she  raised  her 
eyes  to  look  again  at  this  young  gallant  who 
lingered  here  at  the  lavoir  for  the  sake  of  her 
beaux  yeux. 

Could  this  dark-eyed,  smiling  youth  be  a 
Hun  spy?  His  smooth,  boyish  features,  his 
crisp  short  hair  and  tiny  mustache  shading 
lips  a  trifle  too  red  and  overfull  did  not  dis 
please  her.  In  his  way  he  was  handsome. 

His  voice,  too,  was  attractive,  gaily  per 
suasive,  but  it  was  his  pronunciation  of  the 
letters  c  and  d  which  had  instantly  set  her 
on  her  guard. 

Seated  on  the  bank  near  her,  his  roving 
eyes  full  of  bold  curiosity  bent  on  her  from 
time  to  time,  his  idle  fingers  plaiting  a  little 
wreath  out  of  long-stemmed  clover  and  bou- 
tons  d'or,  he  appeared  merely  an  intrusive, 
irresponsible  young  fellow  willing  to  amuse 

328 


himself  with  a  few  moments'  rustic  courtship 
here  before  he  continued  on  his  way. 

"You  are  exceedingly  pretty,"  he  said. 
"Will  you  tell  me  your  name  in  exchange  for 
mine  ?" 

"Maryette  Courtray." 

"Oh,"  he  exclaimed  in  quick  recognition; 
"you  are  bell-mistress  in  Sainte  Lesse,  then! 
You  are  the  celebrated  carillonnette !  I  have 
heard  about  you.  I  suspected  that  you  might 
be  the  little  mistress  of  Sainte  Lesse  bells,  be 
cause  you  wear  the  Legion — "  He  nodded  his 
handsome  head  toward  the  decoration  on  her 
blouse. 

"And  to  think,"  he  added  effusively,  "that 
it  is  just  a  mere  slip  of  a  girl  who  was  deco 
rated  for  bravery  by  France!" 

She  smiled  at  him  with  all  the  beguilingly 
bete  innocence  of  the  young  when  flattered: 

"You  are  too  amiable,  monsieur.  I  really 
do  not  understand  why  they  gave  me  the 
Legion.  To  encourage  all  French  children, 
perhaps — because  I  really  am  a  dreadful  cow 
ard."  She  tapped  the  holster  on  her  thigh 
and  gazed  at  him  quite  guilelessly  out  of  wide 

329 


BARBARIANS 


and  trustful  eyes.  "You  see?  I  dare  not 
even  come  here  to  wash  my  clothes  unless  I 
carry  this — in  case  some  Boche  comes  prowl 
ing." 

"Whose  pistol  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"The  weapon  belongs  to  Monsieur  Steek. 
"When  I  come  to  wash  here  I  borrow  it." 

"Are  you  the  sweetheart  of  Monsieur 
Steek?"  he  inquired,  mimicking  her  pronun 
ciation  of  "Stick,"  and  at  the  same  time  fixing 
his  dark  eyes  boldly  and  expressively  on  hers. 

"Does  a  young  girl  of  my  age  have  sweet 
hearts?"  she  demanded  scornfully. 

"If  she  hasn't  had  one,  it's  time,"  he  re 
turned,  staring  hard  at  her  with  a  persistent 
and  fixed  smile  that  had  become  almost 
offensive. 

"Oh,  la!"  she  exclaimed  with  a  shrug  of  her 
youthful  shoulders.  "Perhaps  you  think  I 
have  time  for  such  foolishness — what  with 
housework  to  do  and  washing,  and  caring  for 
my  father,  and  my  duties  in  the  belfry  every 
day!" 

"Youth  passes  swiftly,  belle  Maryette." 

330 


KAMERAD 


"Imitate  him,  beau  monsieur,  and  swiftly 
pass  your  way!" 

"L'amour  est  doux,  petite  Marie!" 

"Je  m'en  moquel" 

He  rose,  smiling  confidently,  dropped  on  his 
knees  beside  her,  and  rolled  back  his  cuffs. 

"Come,"  he  said,  "I'll  help  you  wash.  We 
two  should  finish  quickly." 

"I  am  in  no  haste." 

"But  it  will  give  you  an  hour's  leisure,  belle 
Maryette." 

"Why  should  I  wish  for  leisure,  beau  mon 
sieur?" 

"I  shall  try  to  instruct  you  why,  when  we 
have  our  hour  together." 

"Do  you  mean  to  pay  court  to  me?" 

"I  am  doing  that  now.  My  ardent  court 
ship  will  already  be  accomplished,  so  that  we 
need  not  waste  our  hour  together!"  He  be 
gan  to  laugh  and  wring  out  the  linen. 

"Monsieur,"  she  expostulated  smilingly, 
"your  apropos  disturbs  me.  Have  you  the 
assurance  to  believe  that  you  already  appeal 
to  my  heart!" 

331 


BARBARIANS 


"Have  I  not  appealed  to  it  a  little,  Mary- 
ette?" 

The  girl  averted  her  head  coquettishly. 
For  a  few  minutes  they  scrubbed  away  there 
together,  side  by  side  on  their  knees  above 
the  rim  of  the  pool.  Then,  without  warning, 
his  hot,  red  lips  burned  her  neck.  Her 
swift  recoil  was  also  a  shudder;  her  face 
flushed. 

"Don't  do  that!"  she  said  sharply,  straight 
ening  up  in  the  grass  where  she  was  kneeling. 

"You  are  so  adorable !"  he  pleaded  in  a  low, 
tense  voice. 

There  was  a  long  silence.  She  had  moved 
aside  and  away  from  him  on  her  knees;  her 
head  remained  turned,  too,  and  her  features 
were  set  as  though  carven  out  of  rosy  marble. 

She  was  summoning  every  atom  of  resolu 
tion,  every  particle  of  courage  to  do  what  she 
must  do.  Every  fibre  in  her  revolted  with 
the  effort;  but  she  steeled  herself,  and  at  last 
the  forced  smile  was  stamped  on  her  lips,  and 
she  dared  turn  her  head  and  meet  his  burn 
ing  gaze. 

"You  frighten  me,"  she  said — and  her  un- 

332 


KAMERAD 


steady  voice  was  convincing.  "A  young  girl 
is  not  courted  so  abruptly." 

"Forgive  me,"  lie  murmured.  "I  could  not 
help  myself — your  neck  is  so  fragrant,  so 
childlike " 

"Then  you  should  treat  me  as  you  would  a 
child!"  she  retorted  pettishly.  "Amuse  me, 
if  you  aspire  to  any  comradeship  with  me. 
Your  behaviour  does  not  amuse  me  at  all." 

"We  shall  become  comrades,"  he  said  confi 
dently,  "and  you  shall  be  sufficiently  amused." 

"It  requires  time  for  two  people  to  become 
comrades." 

"Will  you  give  me  an  hour  this  evening?" 

"What?  A  rendezvous?"  she  exclaimed, 
laughing. 

"Yes." 

"You  mean  somewhere  alone  with  you?" 

"Will  you,  Maryette?" 

"But  why?  I  am  not  yet  old  enough  for 
such  foolishness.  It  would  not  amuse  me  at 
all  to  be  alone  with  you  for  an  hour."  She 
pouted  and  shrugged  and  absently  plucked  a 
hollow  stem  from  the  sedge. 

"It  would  amuse  me  much  more  to  sit  here 

333 


BARBARIANS 


and  blow  bubbles,"  she  added,  clearing  the 
stem  with  a  quick  breath  and  soaping  the 
end  of  it. 

Then,  with  tormenting  malice,  she  let  her 
eyes  rest  sideways  on  him  while  she  plunged 
the  hollow  stem  into  the  water,  withdrew  it, 
dripping,  and  deliberately  blew  an  enormous 
golden  bubble  from  the  end. 

"Look!"  she  cried,  detaching  the  bubble,  ap 
parently  enchanted  to  see  it  float  upward.  "Is 
it  not  beautiful,  my  fairy  balloon?" 

On  her  knees  there  beside  the  basin  she 
blew  bubble  after  bubble,  detaching  each  with 
a  slight  movement  of  her  wrist,  and  laughing 
delightedly  to  see  them  mount  into  the  sun 
shine. 

"You  are  a  child,"  he  said,  worrying  his  red 
underlip  with  his  teeth.  "You're  a  baby,  after 
all." 

She  said: 

"Very  well,  then,  children  require  toys  to 
amuse  them,  not  sighs  and  kisses  and  bold, 
brown  eyes  to  frighten  and  perplex  them. 
Have  you  any  toys  to  amuse  me  if  I  give  you 
an  hour  with  me?" 

334 


KAMERAD 


"Maryette,  I  can  easily  teach  you " 

"No!  Will  you  bring  me  a  toy  to  amuse 
me? — a  clay  pipe  to  blow  bubbles?  I  adore 
bubbles." 

"If  I  promise  to  amuse  you,  will  you  give 
me  an  hour?"  he  asked. 

"How  can  I?"  she  demanded  with  sudden 
caprice.  "I  have  my  wash  to  finish;  then  I 
have  to  see  that  my  father  has  his  soup ;  then 
I  must  attend  to  customers  at  the  inn,  go  up 
to  the  belfry,  oil  the  machinery,  play  the 
carillon  later,  wind  the  drum  for  the 
night " 

"I  shall  come  to  you  in  the  tower  after  the 
angelus,"  he  said  eagerly. 

"I  shall  be  too  busy " 

"After  the  carillon,  then!  Promise,  Mary 
ette!" 

"And  sit  up  there  alone  with  you  in  the 
dark  for  an  hour?  Ma  foi!  How  amusing!" 
She  laughed  in  pretty  derision.  "I  shall  not 
even  be  able  to  blow  bubbles !" 

Watching  her  pouting  face  intently,  he  said : 

"Suppose  I  bring  some  toy  balloons  for  you 

335 


BARBARIANS 


to    fly    from   the    clock   tower?      Would   that 

> 

amuse  you — you  beautiful,  perverse  child?" 

"Little  toy  balloons  1"  she  echoed,  enchanted. 
"What  pleasure  to  set  them  afloat  from  the 
belfry  I  Do  you  really  promise  to  bring  me 
some  little  toy  balloons  to  fly?" 

"Yes.  But  you  must  promise  not  to  speak 
about  it  to  anybody." 

"Wliy?" 

"Because  the  gendarmes  wouldn't  let  us  fly 
any  balloons." 

"You  mean  that  they  might  think  me  a 
spy?"  she  inquired  naively. 

"Or  me,"  he  rejoined  with  a  light  laugh. 
"So  we  shall  have  to  be  very  discreet  and  go 
cautiously  about  our  sport.  And  it  ought  to 
be  great  fun,  Maryette,  to  sail  balloons  out 
over  the  German  trenches.  We'll  tie  a  mes 
sage  to  every  one!  Shall  we,  little  comrade?" 

She  clapped  her  hands. 

"That  will  enrage  the  Boches!"  she  cried. 
"You  won't  forget  to  bring  the  balloons?" 

"After  the  carillon,"  he  nodded,  staring  at 
her  intently. 

"Half  past  ten,"  she  said;  "not  one  minute 
336 


earlier.  I  cannot  be  disturbed  when  playing. 
Do  you  understand!  Do  you  promise?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  promise  not  to  bother 
you  before  half  past  ten." 

"Very  well.  Now  let  me  do  my  washing 
here  in  peace." 

She  was  still  scrubbing  her  linen  when  he 
went  reluctantly  away  across  the  meadow 
toward  Sainte  Lesse.  And  when  she  finally 
stood  up,  swung  the  basket  to  her  head,  and 
left  the  meadow,  the  sun  hung  low  behind 
Sainte  Lesse  "Wood  and  a  rose  and  violet  glow 
possessed  the  world. 

At  the  White  Doe  Inn  she  flew  feverishly 
about  her  duties,  aiding  the  ancient  peasant 
woman  with  the  simple  preparations  for  din 
ner,  giving  her  father  his  soup  and  helping 
him  to  bed,  swallowing  a  mouthful  herself  as 
she  hastened  to  finish  her  household  tasks. 

Kid  Glenn  came  in  as  usual  for  an  aperi 
tif  while  she  was  gathering  up  her  wooden 
gloves. 

"Did  a  mule  stray  today  from  your  cor 
ral?"  she  asked,  filling  his  glass  for  him. 

337 


BARBARIANS 


"No,"  he  said 

"Are  you  sure?" 

"Dead  certain.    Why!" 

"Do  you  know  one  of  the  new  muleteers 
named  Braun!" 

"I  know  Tiim  by  sight." 

"Keed!"  she  said,  going  up  to  him  and  plac 
ing  both  hands  on  his  broad  shoulders;  "I 
play  the  carillon  after  the  angelus.  Bring 
Steek  to  the  bell-tower  half  an  hour  after  you 
hear  the  carillon  end.  You  will  hear  it  end; 
you  will  hear  the  quarter  hour  strike  pres 
ently.  Half  an  hour  later,  after  the  third 
quarter  hour  strikes,  you  shall  arrive.  Bring 
pistols.  Do  you  promise?" 

"Sure!     What's  the  row,  Maryette?" 

"I  don't  know  yet.  I  think  we  shall  find  a 
spy  in  the  tower." 

"mere?" 

"In  the  belfry,  parbleul  And  you  and 
Steek  shall  come  up  the  stairs  and  you  shall 
wait  in  the  dark,  there  where  the  keyboard 
is,  and  where  you  see  all  the  wires  lead 
ing  upward.  You  shall  listen  attentively,  and 
I  will  be  on  the  landing  above,  among  my 

338 


bells.    And  when  you  hear  me  cry  out  to  you, 
then  you  shall  come  running  with  pistols!" 

"For  heaven's  sake " 

"Is  it  understood?  Give  me  your  word, 
Keed!" 

"Sure! " 

"Allans!  Assez!"  she  whispered  excitedly. 
"Make  prisoner  any  man  you  see  there! — 
any  man!  You  understand!" 

"You  bet!" 

11  Any  man!"  she  repeated  slowly,  "even  if 
he  wears  the  same  uniform  you  wear." 

There  was  a  silence.    Then: 

"By  God!"  said  Glenn  under  his  breath. 

"You  suspect?" 

"Yes.  And  if  it  is  one  of  our  German- 
American  muleteers,  we'll  lynch  him!"  he 
whispered  in  a  white  rage. 

But  Maryette  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  said  in  a  dull,  even  voice,  "let  the 
gendarmerie  take  him  in  charge.  Spy  or  sus 
pect,  he  must  have  his  chance.  That  is  the 
law  in  France." 

"You  don't  give  rats  a  chance,  do  you!" 
SS9 


"I  give  everything  its  chance,"  she  said 
simply.  "And  so  does  my  country." 

She  drew  the  automatic  pistol  from  her 
holster,  examined  it,  raised  her  eyes  gravely 
to  the  American  beside  her: 

"This  is  terrible  for  me,"  she  added,  in  a 
low  but  steady  voice.  "If  it  were  not  for 
my  country — "  She  made  a  grave  gesture, 
turned,  and  went  slowly  out  through  the 
arched  stone  passage  into  the  main  street  of 
the  town.  A  few  minutes  later  the  angelus 
sounded  sweetly  over  the  woods  and  meadows 
of  Sainte  Lesse. 

At  ten,  as  the  last  stroke  of  the  hour  ended, 
there  came  a  charming,  intimate  little  mur 
mur  of  awakening  bells;  it  grew  sweeter, 
clearer,  filling  the  starry  sky,  growing,  ex 
quisitely  increasing  in  limpid,  transparent  vol 
ume,  sweeping  through  the  high,  dim  belfry 
like  a  great  wind  from  Paradise  carrying 
Heaven's  own  music  out  over  the  darkened 
earth. 

All  Sainte  Lesse  came  to  its  doorways  to 
listen  to  the  playing  of  their  beloved  Carillon- 

340 


KAMERAD 


nette;  the  bell-music  ebbed  and  swelled  under 
the  stars;  the  ancient  Flemish  masterpiece, 
written  by  some  carillonneur  whose  bones  had 
long  been  dust,  became  magnificently  vital 
again  under  the  enchanted  hands  of  the  little 
mistress  of  the  bells. 

In  fifteen  minutes  the  carillon  ended;  a 
slight  pause  followed,  then  the  quarter  hour 
struck. 

With  the  last  stroke  of  the  bell,  the  girl 
drew  off  her  wooden  gloves,  laid  them  on  the 
keyboard,  turned  slowly  in  her  seat,  listening. 
A  slight  sound  coming  from  the  spiral  stair 
case  of  stone  set  her  heart  beating  violently. 
Had  the  suspected  man  violated  his  word? 
She  drew  the  automatic  pistol  from  her  hol 
ster,  rose,  and  stole  up  to  the  stone  platform 
overhead,  where,  rising  tier  on  tier  into  the 
darkness,  the  great  carillon  of  Sainte  Lesse 
loomed  overhead. 

She  listened  uneasily.  Had  the  man  lied? 
It  seemed  to  her  as  though  her  hammering 
heart  must  burst  from  her  bosom  with  the 
terrible  suspense  of  the  moment. 

Suddenly  a  shadowy  form  appeared  at  the 

23  3-11 


BARBARIANS 


head  of  the  stairs,  reaching  the  platform  at 
one  bound.  And  her  heart  seemed  to  stop  as 
she  realized  that  this  man  had  arrived  too 
early  for  her  friends  to  be  of  any  use  to  her. 
He  had  lied  to  her.  And  now  she  must  take 
him  unaided,  or  kill  him  there  in  the  starlight 
under  the  looming  bells. 

"Maryette!"  he  called.     She  did  not  stir. 

"Maryette!"  he  whispered.  "Where  are 
you,  little  sweetheart?  Forgive  me,  I  could 
not  wait  any  longer.  I  adore  you — 

All  at  once  he  discovered  her  standing  mo 
tionless  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  bell  Bay 
ard — sprang  toward  her,  eager,  ardent,  tri 
umphant. 

"Maryette,"  he  whispered,  "I  love  you!  I 
shall  teach  you  what  a  lover  is 

Suddenly  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  face; 
the  terrible  expression  in  her  eyes  checked 
him. 

"What  has  happened?"  he  asked,  bewil 
dered.  And  then  he  caught  sight  of  the  pistol 
in  her  hand. 

"What's  that  for?"  he  demanded  harshly. 
"Are  you  afraid  to  love  me?  Do  you  think 

342 


KAMERAD 


I'm  the  kind  of  lover  to  stop  for  a  thing  like 
that " 

She  said,  in  a  low,  distinct  voice: 

"Don't  move!  Put  up  both  hands  in 
stantly!" 

"What!"  he  snapped  out,  like  the  crack  of 
a  lash. 

"I  know  who  you  are.  You're  a  Boche  and 
no  Yankee!  Turn  your  back  and  raise  your 
arms !" 

For  a  moment  they  looked  at  each  other. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  steadily,  "you  had  bet 
ter  explain  your  gas  cylinders  and  balloons 
to  the  gendarmes  at  the  Poste." 

"No,"  he  said,  "I'll  explain  them,  to  you, 
now! " 

"If  you  touch  your  pistol,  I  fire! " 

But  already  he  had  whipped  out  his  pistol; 
and  she  fired  instantly,  smashing  his  right 
hand  to  pulp. 

"You  damned  hell-cat!"  he  screamed, 
stretching  out  his  shattered  hand  in  an  agony 
of  impotent  fury.  Blood  rained  from  it  on 
the  stone  flags.  Suddenly  he  started  toward 
her. 


343 


BARBARIANS 


"Don't  stir!"  she  whispered.  "Turn  your 
back  and  raise  both  arms!" 

His  face  became  ghastly. 

"Let  me  go,  in  God's  name!"  he  burst  out 
in  a  strangled  voice.  "Don't  send  me  before 
a  firing  squad!  Listen  to  me,  little  comrade 
. — I  surrender  myself  to  your  mercy— 

"Then  keep  away  from  me!  Keep  your 
distance!"  she  cried,  retreating.  He  followed, 
fawning : 

"Listen!  We  were  such  good  com 
rades— 

"Don't  come  any  nearer  to  me!"  she  called 
out  sharply;  but  he  still  shuffled  toward  her, 
whimpering,  drenched  in  blood,  both  hands 
uplifted. 

"Kamerad!"  he  whined,  "Kamerad — "  and 
suddenly  launched  a  kick  at  her. 

She  just  avoided  it,  springing  behind  the 
bell  Bayard;  and  he  rushed  at  her  and  struck 
with  both  uplifted  arms,  showering  her  with 
blood,  but  not  quite  reaching  her. 

In  the  darkness  among  the  beams  and  the 
deep  shadows  of  the  bells  she  could  hear  him 
hunting  for  her,  breathing  heavily  and  mak- 

344 


ing  ferocious,  inarticulate  noises,  as  she 
swung  herself  up  onto  the  first  beam  above 
and  continued  to  crawl  upward. 

"Where  are  you,  little  fool?"  he  cried  at 
length.  "I  have  business  with  you  before  I 
cut  your  throat — that  smooth,  white  throat  of 
yours  that  I  kissed  down  there  by  the  lavoir!" 
There  was  no  sound  from  her. 

He  went  back  toward  the  stairs  and  began 
hunting  about  in  the  starlight  for  his  pistol; 
but  there  was  no  parapet  on  the  bell  platform, 
and  he  probably  concluded  that  it  had  fallen 
over  the  edge  of  the  tower  into  the  street. 

Supporting  his  wounded  hand,  he  stood 
glaring  blankly  about  him,  and  his  bloodshot 
eyes  presently  fell  on  the  door  to  the  stairs. 
But  he  must  have  realized  that  flight  would 
be  useless  for  him  if  he  left  this  girl  alive  in 
her  bell-tower,  ready  to  alarm  the  town  the 
moment  he  ran  for  the  stairs. 

With  his  left  hand  he  fumbled  under  his 
tunic  and  disengaged  a  heavy  trench  knife 
from  its  sheath.  The  loss  of  blood  was  mak 
ing  his  legs  a  trifle  unsteady,  but  he  pulled 
himself  together  and  moved  stealthily  under 

345 


BARBARIANS 


the  shadows  of  beam  and  bell  until  he  came 
to  the  spot  he  selected.  And  there  he  lay 
down,  the  hilt  of  the  knife  in  his  left  hand, 
the  blade  concealed  by  his  opened  tunic. 

His  heavy  groans  at  last  had  their  effect 
on  the  girl,  who  had  climbed  high  up  into  the 
darkness,  creeping  from  beam  to  beam  and 
mounting  from  one  tier  of  bells  to  another. 

Standing  on  the  lowest  beam,  she  cautiously 
looked  out  through  an  oubliette  and  saw  him 
lying  on  his  back  near  the  sheer  edge  of  the 
roof. 

Evidently  he,  also,  could  see  her  head  sil 
houetted  against  the  stars,  for  he  called  up 
to  her  in  a  plaintive  voice  that  he  was  bleed 
ing  to  death  and  unable  to  move. 

After  a  few  moments,  opening  his  eyes 
again,  he  saw  her  standing  on  the  roof  beside 
him,  looking  down  at  him.  And  he  whispered 
his  appeal  in  the  name  of  Christ.  And  in 
His  name  the  little  bell-mistress  responded. 

When  she  had  used  the  blue  kerchief  at  her 
neck  for  a  tourniquet  and  had  checked  the 
hemorrhage,  he  was  still  patiently  awaiting  a 

346 


KAMERAD 


better  opportunity  to  employ  his  knife.  It 
would  not  do  to  bungle  the  affair.  And  he 
thought  he  knew  how  it  could  be  properly 
done — if  he  could  get  her  head  in  the  crook 
of  his  muscular  elbow. 

"Lift  me,  dear  ministering  angel,"  he  whis 
pered  weakly. 

She  stooped  impulsively,  hesitated,  then, 
suddenly  terrified  at  the  blazing  ferocity  in 
his  eyes,  she  shrank  back  at  the  same  instant 
that  his  broad  knife  flashed  in  her  very  face. 

He  was  on  his  feet  at  a  bound,  and,  as  she 
raised  her  voice  in  a  startled  cry  for  help, 
he  plunged  heavily  at  her,  but  slipped  and  fell 
in  his  own  blood.  Then  the  clattering  jingle 
of  spurred  boots  on  the  stone  stairs  below 
caught  his  ear.  He  was  trapped,  and  he 
realized  it.  He  slowly  got  to  his  feet. 

As  Smith  and  Glenn  appeared,  springing 
out  of  the  low-arched  door,  the  muleteer 
Braun  turned  and  faced  them. 

There  was  a  silence,  then  Glenn  said, 
bitterly : 

"It's  you,  is  it,  you  dirty  Dutchman!" 

"Hands  up!"  said  Smith  quietly.  "Come 
347 


BARBARIANS 


on,  now;  it's  a  case  of  'Kamerad'  for  yours." 

Braun  did  not  move  to  comply  with  the 
demand.  Gradually  it  dawned  on  them  that 
the  man  was  game. 

"Maryette!"  he  called;  "where  are  you?" 

Smith  said  curiously: 

"What  do  you  want  with  her,  Braun  f 

"I  want  to  speak  to  her." 

"Come  over  here,  Maryette,"  said  Glenn 
sullenly. 

The  girl  crept  out  of  the  shadows.  Her 
face  was  ghastly. 

Braun  looked  at  her  with  pallid  scorn: 

"You  little,  ignorant  fool,"  he  said,  "I'd  have 
made  you  a  better  lover  than  you'll  ever  have 
now !" 

He  shrugged  his  square  shoulders  in  con 
tempt,  turned  without  a  glance  at  Smith  and 
Glenn,  and  stepped  outward  into  space.  And 
as  he  fell  there  between  sky  and  earth,  hur 
tling  downward  under  the  stars,  Glenn's  pistol 
flashed  twice,  killing  his  quarry  in  midair 
while  falling. 

"Can  you  beat  it?"  he  demanded  hoarsely, 
turning  on  Smith.  "Ain't  that  me  all  over! 

348 


KAMERAD 


— soft-hearted  enough  to  do  that  skunk  a  kind 
ness  thataway!" 

But  his  youthful  voice  was  shaking,  and  he 
stared  at  the  edge  of  the  abyss,  listening  to 
the  far  tumult  now  arising  from  the  street 
below. 

"Did  you  shoot?"  he  inquired,  controlling 
his  nervous  voice  with  an  effort. 

"Naw,"  said  Smith  disgustedly.  ".  .  .  Now, 
Maryette,  put  one  arm  around  my  neck,  and 
me  and  the  Kid  will  take  you  down  them 
stairs,  because  you  look  tired — kind  o'  peeked 
and  fussed,  what  with  all  this  funny  business 
going  on— 

"Oh,  Steek!  Steek!"  she  sobbed.  "Oh,  mon 
ami,  Steek!" 

She  began  to  cry  bitterly.  Smith  picked 
her  up  in  his  arms. 

"What  you  need  is  sleep,"  he  said  very 
gently. 

But  she  shook  her  head:  she  had  business 
to  transact  on  her  knees  that  night — business 
with  the  Mother  of  God  that  would  take  all 
night  long — and  many,  many  other  sleepless 
nights;  and  many  candles. 

349 


BARBARIANS 


She  put  her  left  arm  around  Smith's  neck 
and  hid  her  tear-wet  face  on  his  shoulder. 
And,  as  he  bore  her  out  of  the  high  tower 
and  descended  the  unlighted,  interminable 
stairs  of  stone,  he  heard  her  weeping  against 
his  breast  and  softly  asking  intercession  in 
behalf  of  a  dead  young  man  who  had  tried 
to  be  to  her  a  "Kamerad" — as  he  understood 
it — including  the  entire  gamut,  from  amorous 
beast  to  fiend. 

There  was  a  single  candle  lighted  in  the  bar 
of  the  White  Doe.  On  the  "zinc,"  side  by  side, 
like  birds  on  a  rail,  sat  the  two  muleteers. 
In  each  big,  sunburnt  fist  was  an  empty  glass; 
their  spurred  feet  dangled;  they  leaned  for 
ward  where  they  sat,  hunched  up  over  their 
knees,  heads  slightly  turned,  as  though  in 
tently  listening.  A  haze  of  cigarette  smoke 
dimmed  the  candle  flame. 

The  drone  of  an  aeroplane  high  in  the  mid 
night  sky  came  to  them  at  intervals.  At  last 
the  sound  died  away  under  the  far  stars. 

By  the  smoky  candle  flame  Kid  Glenn  un- 
350 


folded   and   once  more   read  the   letter   that 
kept  them  there: 

— I  ought  to  get  to  Sainte  Lesse  somewhere  around 
midnight.  Don't  say  a  word  to  Maryette. 

JACK. 

Sticky  Smith,  reading  over  his  shoulder, 
slowly  rolled  another  cigarette. 

"When  Jack  comes,"  he  drawled,  "it's 
a-goin'  to  he'p  a  lot.  That  Maryette  girl's 
plumb  done  in." 

"Sure  she's  done  in,"  nodded  Kid  Glenn. 
"Wouldn't  it  do  in  anybody  to  shoot  up  a 
young  man  an'  then  see  him  step  off  the  top 
of  a  skyscraper?" 

Smith  admitted  that  he  himself  had  felt 
"kind  er  squeamish."  He  added:  "Gawd,  how 
he  spread  when  he  hit  the^i  flags!  You 
didn't  look  at  him,  did  you,  Kid?" 

"Naw.  Say,  d'ya  think  Maryette  has  gone 
to  bed?" 

"I  dunno.  When  we  left  her  up  there  in 
her  room,  I  turned  and  took  a  peek  to  see 
she  was  comfy,  but  she  was  down  onto  both 
knees  before  that  china  virgin  on  the  niche 
over  her  bed." 

351 


BARBARIANS 


"She  oughter  be  iu  bed.  You  gotta  sleep 
off  a  thing  like  that,  or  you  feel  punk  next 
day,"  remarked  Glenn,  meditatively  twirling 
the  last  drops  of  eau-de-vie  around  in  his 
tumbler.  Then  he  swallowed  them  and 
smacked  his  lips.  "She'll  come  around  all 
0.  K.  when  she  sees  Jack,"  he  added. 

"Goin'  to  let  him  wake  her  up?" 

"Can  you  see  us  stoppin'  him!  He'd  kick 
the  pants  off  us— 

"Sh-h-h!"  motioned  Smith;  "there's  a  auto 
mobile!  By  gum!  It's  stopped!— 

The  two  muleteers  set  their  glasses  on  the 
bar,  slid  to  the  floor,  and  marched,  clanking, 
into  the  covered  way  that  led  to  the  street. 
Smith  undid  the  bolts.  A  young  man  stood 
outside  in  the  starlight. 

"Well,  Jack  Burley,  you  old  son  of  a  gun!" 
drawled  Glenn.  "Gawd!  You  look  fit  for  a 
dead  one!" 

"We  ain't  told  her!"  whispered  Smith. 
"She  an*  us  done  in  a  Fritz  this  evening,  an' 
it  sorter  turned  Maryette's  stomach— 

"Not  that  she  ain't  well,"  explained  Glenn 
hastily;  "only  a  girl  feels  different.  Stick 

352 


an'  me,  we  just  took  a  few  drinks,  but  Mary- 
ette,  soon  as  she  got  home,  she  just  flopped 
down  on  her  knees  and  asked  that  china  vir 
gin  of  hers  to  go  easy  on  that  there  Fritz " 

They  had  conducted  Burley  to  the  bar;  both 
their  arms  were  draped  around  his  shoulders; 
both  talked  to  him  at  the  same  time. 

"This  here  Fritz,"  began  Glenn — but  Burley 
freed  himself  from  their  embrace. 

"Where's  Maryette?"  he  demanded. 

Smith  jerked  a  silent  thumb  toward  the 
ceiling. 

"In  bed?" 

"Or  prayin'." 

Burley  flushed,  hesitated. 

"G'wan  up,  anyway,"  said  Glenn.  "I  reckon 
it'll  do  her  a  heap  o'  good  to  lamp  you,  you 
old  son  of  a  gun !" 

Burley  turned,  went  up  the  short  flight  of 
stairs  to  her  closed  door.  There  was  candle 
light  shining  through  the  transom.  He 
knocked  with  a  trembling  hand.  There  was 
no  answer.  He  knocked  again;  heard  her 
uncertain  step;  stepped  back  as  her  door 
opened. 

353 


BARBARIANS 


The  girl,  a  drooping  figure  in  her  night 
robe,  stood  listlessly  on  the  threshold.  Which 
of  the  muleteers  it  was  who  had  come  to  her 
door  she  did  not  notice.  She  said: 

"I  am  very  tired.  Death  is  a  dreadful 
thing.  I  can't  put  it  from  my  mind.  I  am 
trying  to  pray 

She  lifted  her  weary  eyes  and  found  her 
self  looking  into  the  face  of  her  own  lover. 
She  turned  very  white,  lovely  eyes  dilated. 

"Is— is  it  thou,  Djack?" 

"C'est  moi,  ma  ploo  belle!" 

She  melted  into  his  tightening  arms  with  a 
faint  cry.  Very  high  overhead,  under  the 
lustrous  stars,  an  aeroplane  droned  its  un 
charted  way  across  a  blood-soaked  world. 


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